


Not To Die of The Truth

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: Morphology [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana is Not Amused, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Crime Scenes, Established Relationship, Hannibal in Love, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal is also dealing with giving up being a cannibal, Hannibal's Headspace, Hurt/Comfort, In Character, Kissing, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Romance, Serial Killer, Violence, Will Finds Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 93,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than ever, Hannibal is struggling with the aftermath of his decision to give up killing in order to be with Will. Abigail is going through changes of her own, which may be just what Hannibal needs to distract himself from his own issues. Will begins working on a new case, which spills over into all of their lives with disastrous results. As they hunt a killer, Will begins to suspect there is a great deal he doesn't know about the man he's come to love.</p><p>I know the premise is hard to swallow, but give it a shot. An in character AU where Hannibal and Will are together, Hannibal has no remorse for his killing ways, yet knows he has to leave that life behind if he's going to be with Will. Originally spawned from a HannibalKink prompt "<a href="http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2676.html?thread=4680052#cmt4680052">Corruption for the Better.</a>"</p><p>The amazing <a href="">FeoplePeel</a> made a cover for this fic!!! You should <a href="http://feoplepeel.tumblr.com/post/86973978535/not-to-die-of-the-truth-by-finely-honed-part-six">put your eyes all over it</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then suddenly, there is a change

_“My life has taken another turn again. The days can go on with regularity over and over, one day indistinguishable from the next. A long continuous chain. Then suddenly, there is a change.”_ —Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver

* * *

Hannibal’s pencil rasped against paper, but his attention was elsewhere as the drawing began to take shape, almost as if he were working on autopilot. Above him, Abigail was pacing, pausing now and again to examine the spine of a book; he wondered how much longer it would be before she was ready to talk about whatever was troubling her.

After escorting out his last patient of the day, Hannibal had returned to his office only to find Abigail waiting within, eyes bright and cheeks rosy from the cool evening air. She had hugged him, quick and furtive, before spinning out of his embrace to toss her coat aside, ignoring his frown as she did so. While he gathered the discarded garment, she began wandering around his office, feigning interest in the various items contained within, making rather stilted small talk.

When asked what brought her out, Abigail had simply shrugged and rather petulantly asked if there needed to be a reason for them to spend time together. Considering she had once again snuck out in order to visit him, her answer was less than satisfying. Hannibal had resigned himself to simply waiting her out, and so began to draw.

It had been during a visit approximately two weeks prior that he first took note of the difference in Abigail. Throughout their time together, she would look to the doctor, a frantic intensity present in her eyes. Will had chalked it up to her still adjusting to their relationship, but Hannibal believed otherwise. She’d exhibited no judgements after her initial, brusque commentary months prior.

Curiosity getting the best of him, the following day he had returned to the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility alone, thinking whatever was troubling her was not suitable to discuss while in Will’s presence. She had remained tight lipped and nervous, leaving him none the wiser at the end of his visit.

Increasingly, Hannibal was at a loss when it came to Abigail. His original plans for her were no longer applicable, simply eliminating her wasn’t an option, yet she had within her possession potentially damning knowledge. He disliked having to place his trust in her, and the change in her behavior certainly wasn’t putting him at ease.

As if sensing his mounting frustration, she leaned over the mezzanine, her long hair flowing downward as she did so, obscuring her face. “Do you believe people can change?” she asked. The pointed tip of his pencil skittered to a halt as he was brought out of his reverie.

“Nietzsche said ‘The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die,’” he answered, his tone carefully neutral, “‘As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind.’”

She seemed to ponder the words, rocking back and forth over the railing above, as if contemplating vaulting down to the floor below. “You changed for Will.”

“My relationship with Will has changed me, yes.” He placed the pencil beside the sketchbook on his desk, taking a moment to carefully line it up with the ever present scalpel before rising from his seat. “As has my relationship with you, Abigail. Is there someone in your life stirring within you a desire for change?”

“Did you really change, though?” she asked, ignoring his question. Her expression lingered somewhere between innocence and accusation as he gazed up at her, hands in his pockets. He disliked the direction their conversation was headed.

She watched him for a moment before beginning to make her way over to the ladder. With her back to him as she slowly descended, she continued, “What if Will and I were gone?”

“Are you planning on going somewhere?”

Abigail accepted the hand he offered as she stepped down from the ladder, glancing up at him nervously. “I just wonder how much anyone can change, really.”

They stood together for a moment, Hannibal still holding Abigail’s hand. “Change happens moment to moment,” he explained, reaching out to stroke her hair. “The folly is in allowing fear to prevent us from understanding the potentiality within us.”

“Are you worried,” she began, looking up at him with wide eyes, “about losing him.” He cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “We have secrets. What if Will finds out and changes his mind about us?” Hannibal had no immediate answer for her. “Should we just… tell him?”

“While confessing might alleviate our consciences, we would be placing Will in a difficult position,” Hannibal said after a moment’s consideration. “He would be required to turn us over to Jack Crawford. To do otherwise would make him an accessory.”

Abigail chewed on her lower lip before breaking eye contact, ducking her head to allow a cascade of hair to separate them from each other. “I know,” she said, pulling away from Hannibal. “I just don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, Abigail.”

Atop Hannibal’s desk, the unfinished sketch of Will Graham seemed to watch them, his eyes haunted in a way Hannibal hadn’t seen in person for quite some time. Some strange transfusion had taken place between them, leaving Hannibal in possession of Will’s troubled emotions, while Will now walked through the day with the comfortable assurance once possessed by the doctor.

The simple truth was, while he loved Will with what could only be described as a ferocity, of late Hannibal felt his resolve slipping. His heart vacillated between overwhelming tenderness and an all consuming resentment toward the changes his lover had unknowingly inspired. He increasingly felt like a wild thing trapped in a cage, quite unlike the Hannibal of the happy-go-lucky days before meeting Will Graham.

He hadn’t lied to Abigail when saying he regretted not being able to tell Will about their secret. About all of the secrets. A growing part of him wanted Will to be made painfully aware of the beautiful world Hannibal had left behind in order for them to be together.

While he hadn’t said as much, Hannibal knew Will believed himself to be in love. Part of him rejoiced at the knowledge his feelings were reciprocated, yet the dark, denied need within bared its teeth and snarled at the notion; this truer incarnation of Hannibal would only accept love given after the bloody truth of who he was had been spilled at Will’s feet. Anything less would be a pretty lie he allowed himself to believe.

And yet, this selfsame part of him clung to the fantasy that Will might accept the truth and love Hannibal all the more for having accomplished such a remarkable transformation. It perversely provided him with dream landscapes wherein he made his confession and, instead of revulsion, Will presented him with a desire to better understand and experience Hannibal’s artistry first hand. Sadly, he could only bring himself to believe that if Will were ever to learn the truth Hannibal could expect to find himself on the wrong end of the special agent’s firearm.

The wisest course of action was to fabricate some reason to break off the affair. He would temporarily close his practice, spend some time traveling through Europe, allow life to return to normalcy. He had gone so far as to purchase a ticket, had mentally rehearsed and prepared to have the conversation, inviting Will over with the ominous statement, “we have much to discuss.”

Then there was Hannibal and Will and all the words he must say if he was ever to find himself at peace, yet instead of anything transpiring as he had planned, the dinner he had prepared for them went cold as he took Will across the dining room table with a desperation rivaling their first sexual encounter.

Tangled together, sweaty and emotionally ruined, Hannibal listened to himself speaking as if the words were not his own. “I no longer feel at home in this house,” he had said, smoothing the hair from Will’s brow. “When you’re away from me the world is shadows and dust.”

And it was true. It was the burning truth tearing him apart inside, the understanding that he had gone too far and could not retrace his steps, no matter the longing, no matter the consuming thoughts and desires. The only time he felt powerfully alive any longer was when with Will, and as tempting as it was to extract himself and return to his craft, he knew the painful truth was it would never be as it once was. For better or worse, he had been changed.

The ticket was never used, his true intentions for the evening never made known. Instead of disentangling himself from Will Graham, much to his own surprise, Hannibal had proposed the idea of them living together. It had all left him feeling rather diminished and even more out of control.

These feelings had clearly been growing within him; he had been spending less and less time in his own home, preferring the atmosphere of Will’s to the cold reminder of his unstocked larders, the unused workspace, the rolodex he was unable to part with just yet. There had been such sublime, dark highs in the home that now the building itself seemed to mock him whenever he returned empty handed.

The idea of a “fresh start” felt so bourgeois that it choked him with anger at times, but the truth was that if he was to maintain his sanity, he needed a change, a distraction. As of yet, cataloging his belongings as he carefully packed them away, making the necessary arrangements to have the house sold, and searching for a new home with Will was doing little to assuage the growing sense of instability that had begun to dominate his world.

As a result, Abigail’s behavior seemed all the more ominous, like nails against the chalkboard of his psyche. He was confident the Hannibal of old would have easily sussed her secret out long ago. Attempting to push the distractions of his inner turmoil aside, he watched her as she lingered nearby studying the drawing of Will where it rested atop his desk. The longer he observed, the more certain he was the change in her was physical as well as psychological.

And then, for just a moment, Abigail wrapped her arms around herself protectively, the movement stirring sudden understanding within him. It was difficult to keep his expression neutral as the realization washed over him, the certainty of his knowledge buoying his spirits. This could prove to be a very interesting distraction from his own conflicted existence.

“You needn’t be afraid, Abigail.”

Her expression fluctuated somewhere between panic at being caught out and sheer relief that she no longer had to wonder what would come of her secret being revealed. Ever the spirited child, she attempted to feign ignorance, but he had already seen all he needed in her moment of surprise. With a dismissive gesture, he brought her stammering protestations to an end.

“You won’t be alone in this,” he said, opening his arms to offer an embrace. “Would you like me to tell Will and Dr. Bloom?”

With that, Abigail’s resolve crumbled and she rushed into his arms, what sounded like, “yes,” mumbled against his chest. Hannibal Lecter smiled to himself as he rocked her, feeling a bit of his old spark returning as he imagined his way along diverging pathways to the future, many of which ended in scenarios certain to horrify the young woman he currently held, had she only known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long--I hit a serious writer's block situation as I churned away over whether or not Will knows Hannibal is what he is; if he does how he can live with it; how Mischa officially became their daughter; how Hannibal could continue on despite his desires to kill/consume... and so on and so forth. I must have finally had enough coffee, because the answers came to me in one gushing flash, allowing me to gleefully put together my outline. I hope to be on a weekly chapter schedule from this point on baring real life interruptions.
> 
> As always, please let me know if anyone feels too out of character. The title comes from a Nietzsche quote: “We have art in order not to die of the truth.”


	2. Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you solve a problem like Abigail Hobbs? Alana and Will try to answer this question while Hannibal enjoys the show.

“ _What we call happiness in the strictest sense comes from the (preferably sudden) satisfaction of needs which have been dammed up to a high degree._ ”

Sigmund Freud

 

* * *

Hannibal found himself regretting his choice of location; he had been so looking forward to seeing the reactions to his announcement that he had wasted no time in seeking out Alana and Will, calling ahead to make certain they were both still at Quantico. As he watched the spectacle unfold, though, he wished he had made them meet him somewhere he could have enjoyed a glass of wine with the show.

A maddened Will Graham was a sight to behold, beautiful in his distress as he was in all things. His jaw was clenching and unclenching, the muscles there undulating almost in time with his rapid breathing. His eyes were bright, blinking rapidly as if to hold back tears, exposed and flashing with anger, the glasses nowhere to be found. Hannibal was certain if he pried Will’s fists open he would find charming half moon marks where Will was digging nails into palms as his arms shook with restraint at his sides.

Hannibal licked his lips and wished he could simply sit back and continue watching, but both Alana and Will were now looking to him to settle their disagreement. “I’m afraid I must agree with Will,” he said, enjoying the flaring of Alana’s nostrils, which was accompanied by a look that clearly said, “big surprise.”

“We don’t even know what happened,” she almost growled.

“Yet, we do know Abigail comes and goes from Port Haven as she pleases. They were clearly surprised when I returned with her this evening. We should no longer pretend she is benefitting in any way from her time there.”

“Exactly,” Will said, spinning to face Alana once again. “What if it was another patient or a member of the staff there? She might have been sexually assaulted for all we know.”

This was almost drowned out by Alana’s commentary, which had been delivered over Will’s own. “She’s in no condition to live unsupervised, is clearly acting out by breaking the rules, and you want to give her more freedom? Great thinking, Hannibal!”

The cacophony continued as each shouted at and over the other, and Hannibal longed once more for a glass of wine. As Alana continued her diatribe concerning Abigail needing structure, supervision, and support, Will looked to Hannibal, a question in his eyes. Hannibal found himself smiling as he nodded his permission, surprised by the surge of pleasure he felt over the moment of silent communication.

“She can live with us, then,” Will said, returning Hannibal’s smile as Alana was shocked into a state of confused silence. He turned to face her, looking almost smug for a moment. “Problem solved.”

Alana swallowed several times, glancing between the two of them as the understanding grew. She had clearly been unaware of their plans to live together, but was reluctant to let on how much her lack of knowledge upset her. “Or, she could do the responsible thing and have an abortion.”

“Abigail was very clear regarding her intentions to keep the child,” Hannibal said, voice low and dangerous. “I cannot say I blame her; there has been enough death in her life already.”

“She’s still a child, and a traumatized one at that, living in a psychiatric facility.” Alana smoothed down her skirt and stood a little straighter, eyes bright and defiant as she stared down Hannibal. “You can’t possibly think she’s in any position to raise a child.”

“I believe Abigail is much stronger than you give her credit for. With the support of myself and Will, within a stable environment, she has every opportunity to become a wonderful mother.”

“And what exactly does the father have to say about all of this?” Alana asked, eyes narrowing as she threw her arms wide with a bit of dramatic flair. “Oh, that’s right, we don’t know who the father is, and your ‘mature’ mother-to-be refuses to tell anyone!”

“Abigail keeps sneaking out to see Hannibal,” Will pointed out, “so she obviously feels connected to him. Living with us has to be better than being forced into having an abortion, doped up, and shoved in some high level security lockdown!”

“No one is _forcing_ anyone to do anything, I just think its important to consider all of the options. She might feel differently as the reality of the situation settles in.” Alana’s cheeks were flushed with anger as she continued, “and Hannibal isn’t her doctor. I am.”

“I have no intention of taking Abigail on as a patient,” Hannibal said, ignoring Alana’s snort of amusement over his remark, “but you must understand that Abigail, Will, and myself share a bond. If she feels she is being kept from the two people closest to her, punished for the actions of her father, and held against her will for crimes she had no part in, is it any wonder she acts out?”

Alana opened her mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of what she intended to say. For a long moment she stared at Hannibal, seeking something in his eyes. The only sound in the room was her and Will’s labored breathing as the moment stretched out uncomfortably.

Hannibal wondered if she was observant enough to see past the concern and confidence he was projecting to the mirth bubbling underneath. While it certainly wasn’t something he would have thought to encourage, Abigail’s unexpected pregnancy was already having delightful consequences. He almost pitied Alana for not knowing her cause was already lost. He had decided to ensure Abigail remained within his realm of influence as her condition progressed, and would not let Alana Bloom stand in his way.

“I don’t like this, but I’ll... consider it,” she finally said, pivoting to make certain her expression of dissatisfaction was also shared with Will. “We’re obviously not going to come to some sort of agreement tonight, so I’m going to talk to Abigail tomorrow. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“I want to be there,” Will said, arms folded against his chest.

“Sorry, Will, but I think I’ll speak with my patient alone.” She glared at him before gathering up her coat and purse. “I’ll also be speaking with the staff. And with Jack.”

“Alana,” Hannibal said, the timber of his voice causing the tightness around her mouth to lessen momentarily. He adopted a repentant expression and let the moment build until he knew she was expecting an apology he had no intention of extending. “Please remember we all want what’s best for Abigail. Her condition is no fault of yours. Perhaps an unorthodox approach is required for such an unorthodox situation.”

“ _Perhaps_ you rely too heavily on the unorthodox,” she replied, whirling out of the room, leaving Hannibal and Will alone in the lecture hall. Hannibal smiled slyly to himself, enjoying the staccato of her heels echoing in the distance as she left in a huff.

Will scrubbed his hands over his face, letting out a loud and rather drawn out groan of frustration as he did so. “I never thought I’d want to throttle Alana,” he admitted, slouching back against the edge of his desk. He shook his head, rubbed his temples, and then the back of his neck, body language broadcasting his frustration.

“We shouldn’t be too hard on Alana,” Hannibal faux chided, appreciating the show. It was as if Will Graham’s entire physical being was a canvas meant only to be painted with the brush of emotional torment; the expressions and mannerisms of despair were so charmingly at home in his features, it was worth marvelling over. As was the case of late, Hannibal was of two minds as he watched, delight and dismay warring within. “She clearly feels a sense of responsibility for Abigail’s situation, and I must admit Alana has a perspective you and I lack as males.”

“What I’m really trying to figure out,” Will began, shifting against the desk in order to face Hannibal more directly, “is why you’re so...” he paused, swallowing and narrowing his eyes before almost spitting the last word out, “pleased.”

Hannibal grew still, pondering his course of action even as he took note of Will’s awareness of the moment, and the way he braced himself against the sting of the lie he expected to follow. Rather than deny anything, Hannibal relaxed and allowed himself to smile openly. There was no point in hiding his amusement. Unlike Alana, Will had seen through the facade, something Hannibal was both pleased and frustrated by. True, it had been some time since he had felt this particular type of bubbling excitement, but again he was forced to confront the ways in which Will had changed him. How very exposed he was around this man now that Will no longer shied away from eye contact or proximity.

“Because it pleases Abigail,” he said, lines crinkling around his eyes as he smiled. Will saw the truth in the statement and relaxed a little, not protesting as Hannibal stepped in close.

Hannibal reached out to gently scratch the scruff of Will’s beard, his tidy, polished fingernails a pleasing contrast against the coarse hair. He was rewarded with a murmur of pleasure as Will tilted his head back to make room for Hannibal’s fingers, unconsciously exposing his throat as he enjoyed the attention. “You must admit, this will be quite interesting.”

“Interesting?” The last of Will’s tension evaporated as he let out a bark of laughter. “Sometimes, I think you’re insane,” he managed before his mouth was captured for a kiss. Hannibal ran his fingers through Will’s hair, pulled him closer still, breathed in the scent of him as something primal within thrilled at the fact that these days Will kept his eyes open when they kissed.

“Perhaps we’re both insane,” Hannibal said, arching an eyebrow at his lover before leaving the warmth of their embrace to retrieve his coat. As enjoyable as it would be to have his way with Will in the lecture hall, Hannibal was excited to get home and begin his planning in earnest.


	3. You Can Call it a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana is still not amused. Beverly tries to help.

“ _I think you're a lonely person. I drive by this place a lot and I see you here. I see a lot of people around you. And I see all these phones and all this stuff on your desk. It means nothing. Then when I came inside and I met you, I saw in your eyes and I saw the way you carried yourself that you're not a happy person. And I think you need something. And if you want to call it a friend, you can call it a friend._ ”—Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver

 

The week was shaping up to be a record breaking low for Alana Bloom, or so it seemed to her as she contemplated the broken heel of her shoe. She ran a finger over the exposed glue and shoddy workmanship and suddenly found herself struggling to hold back tears. Her emotional response to the minor inconvenience infuriated her to such an extent that before she was aware of what she was doing, the shoe was being hurled through the opening elevator doors in front of her at an unsuspecting Beverly Katz.

 

“What the fuck!” Katz shrieked, reflexes kicking in just before the shoe could hit her in the face. The two women stared at each other a moment, Alana with her hands over her mouth in shock. Beverly begin laughing, reaching out with a hand to stop the elevator doors from closing. “Okay, I gotta hear the story that goes with this.”

 

Alana’s shoulders slumped as she limped into the elevator to retrieve the shoe Beverly was extending. “It’s just been a rough couple of days,” Alana answered, trying to brush off the other woman’s curiosity.

 

Beverly gave Alana her best incredulous look, shaking her head as she did so. “Uh, no way do you get to throw a shoe at me and then not dish the dirt.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Alana insisted, sliding back into the offending footwear.

 

“Right, nothing a drink won’t fix,” Beverly said. She snapped in Alana’s direction, motioning for her to hand over the undamaged highheel, which she did warily. Alana gave a little squeak of protest as Beverly snapped her one remaining heel free and offered the shoe back with a smile. “Now you won’t wobble when we go to the bar!”

 

Alana knew a lost cause when she saw one, and moreover she just didn’t have the energy to put up a fight. In fact, the more she thought about it, the better a drink sounded. By the time she finally decided that having some upbeat company while in her current mood might actually be beneficial, she realized Beverly was parking the car and they had apparently arrived somewhere.

 

Fifteen minutes later, as they sat in a booth in the corner of a bar Alana would normally never have considered entering, she realized she had never actually apologized for almost hitting Beverly in the face with her shoe. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

 

“So what’s going on?” Beverly asked, leaning in conspiratorily after taking a sip of her beer.

 

Alana wondered where to start, because the longer she thought about it, the more she was convinced her bad mood was about much more than Abigail’s situation.

 

“Oh god,” Beverly gasped, grabbing Alana’s arm, her eyes widening dramatically as she did so. “Did you catch Will and Hannibal having sex?”

 

“What? No!” Alana reeled back momentarily. “Why would you even _think_ that?”

 

Beverly shrugged one shoulder, looking disappointed that no details of Will and Hannibal’s sex life would be forthcoming. “Please, like you haven’t thought about the two of them in bed together.”

 

“Definitely not,” Alana said, eyes wide as she took a hearty sip of her drink, wondering why she ever thought company was a good idea.

 

Beverly was watching her slyly, disbelief evident in her expression. “Seriously? They’re both gorgeous, you’ve had a weird flirty thing going on with each of them, and now they’re a couple. And you’ve never, ever, even once, thought about being a fly on the wall in their bedroom? If that’s true, I fear for you, girl.”

 

“They’re my friends and colleagues,” she protested, “that’s the last thing I need to think about.”

 

“Well, now you won’t be able to not think about it,” Beverly said with a smile, clinking her glass against Alana’s. “You can thank me later.”

 

Alana took another sip, unable to hold back a giggle. “You certainly sound like you’ve given it a lot of thought.”

 

“The whole team has,” she admitted, smiling innocently. “I’m convinced Hannibal is crazy in the sack, but Brian swears he’s as vanilla as they come. Jimmy just thinks he puts down drop cloths and shit to protect all of his fancy furniture.”

 

Alana hid her face in her hands, now unable to stop the dangerous turn her thoughts were taking. “Well, you can always drop in unexpectedly at their new place and hope you walk in on something,” she suggested, surprised at how bitter she sounded.

 

“Uh oh. Struck a nerve. Sorry, I didn’t realize…”

 

“No, don’t apologize,” Alana interrupted, waving away Beverly’s words in embarrassment. “I am just coming to the realization that I still have some lingering... feelings for Will. He kissed me, you know.”

 

This piqued Beverly’s interest. “Really?”

 

Alana nodded, took another long sip of her drink and sighed. “Yup. Before he found out about the encephalitis. Silly me pushes him away, wanting to be professional, respectful of our friendship, and his instability.”

 

“And?”

 

“And nothing. I tell him we wouldn’t be good together because of my professional curiosity and inability to keep from analyzing him, all the while thinking… maybe. Maybe. Only to realize that he’s moved on in a spectacular way to sleeping with his psychiatrist. Of course, if you ask Hannibal, he was never formally Will’s psychiatrist, but still!”

 

Beverly nodded sympathetically. “So they’re moving in together?”

 

Alana felt relief at the realization that, this time at least, she wasn’t the last to know. “So it seems. I don’t think he’s told anyone yet.”

 

“Well, he does try to pretend he and Hannibal are just friends when he’s at work. It’s almost painful to watch, especially when they’re in the same room with Jack. Will goes out of his way not to be near Hannibal, almost like he’s worried he’ll lose control and jump the guy in front of Jack.” She waited a moment, giving Alana space to chime in. When nothing was forthcoming, she continued. “So is this why you’re shoe-throwing angry?”

 

Alana sighed and frowned at her glass, realizing she’d emptied it quicker than she had planned. Beverly waved and gestured to their server, ordering another round before Alana could protest. “A bit. It didn’t help, at least.” Alana chewed her lower lip as she contemplated continuing. “This isn’t common knowledge, so please don’t tell anyone.”

 

Beverly crossed her chest quickly as she promised. “Consider me sworn to secrecy.”

 

Their drinks arrived and Alana waited a moment, ensuring the server was out of earshot before leaning in to speak in an almost whisper. “Abigail Hobbs is pregnant.”

 

“Get out!” Beverly’s mouth hung open almost comically before her thoughts took a darker turn. “She wasn’t...?”

 

“Nope,” Alana said, pausing for yet another drink. “She snuck out of the facility, went to a club—I don’t even know how she managed to get in—picked up a guy, and then had unprotected sex with him in his car.”

 

“Seriously? Are you seriously serious?” Beverly digested this information as Alana nodded affirmation, the two of them momentarily quiet. “Damn. Go Abigail.”

 

“No, not ‘Go Abigail’! Bad Abigail!” Alana said, slapping her hand against the table for emphasis. “I still can’t get a straight answer out of her over what she was thinking. I’m almost positive she wanted to get pregnant, but she won’t admit to anything. She _was_ happy to tell me how supportive and understanding Hannibal has been about everything, though.”

 

“Maybe this is her way of fighting back against the whole victimhood thing, you know, making a new life for herself,” Beverly suggested. Taking note of Alana’s stormy expression, she added, “Not that having a kid is a good way to solve your problems.”

 

Alana sighed and hung her head. “I just feel like I’ve let her down. Hannibal has been pushing for her to leave Port Haven for a while now, and I’ve dismissed his advice on the basis of him being too emotionally invested and having blinders on where Abigail is concerned. Apparently, I’m the blindest one of all.”

 

“Look, there’s no point in second guessing yourself,” Beverly pointed out. “You did what you thought was best for your patient at the time. Lecter probably is too close, anyway, and who knows what she would have gotten into if you’d taken his advice. It doesn’t sound like anyone had any idea she was going to dump this in your collective laps, so… What can you do?”

 

“That’s what I keep asking myself,” Alana said, once again feeling overwhelmed. “She certainly didn’t appreciate my suggestions.” Beverly gestured for more details. “An abortion, or arranging to put the baby up for adoption if she was intent on carrying it to term.”

 

Beverly winced and gave Alana a little pat on the shoulder. “Look, right now she feels one way, later on she might feel another. Or not. Shit, she might even turn out to be an amazing mother. Based on what you’re telling me, though, she’s not in any place to take the advice you’re offering.”

 

“I know. I’m just alienating her at this point,” Alana agreed, “which is why I’m recommending she leave Port Haven. I was just talking with Jack about making arrangements for her to live with Will and Hannibal.”

 

“How weird is life?” Beverly asked, laughing as she pushed Alana’s drink closer to the forlorn woman. “Drink up, sounds like you’ve earned it.”

  
Knowing she’d regret it in the morning, but not particularly caring, Alana wholeheartedly took Beverly’s advice. At some point, she even began enjoying herself. Much later, having accepted the reality that neither of them was in any shape to drive and a shared cab ride back to Beverly’s couch was probably the safest course of action, Alana was finally able to admit to herself that the underlying cause of her misery was jealousy and regret. If Beverly overheard Alana crying herself to sleep, she was kind enough not to mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys (and Abigail) will be back in the next chapter!


	4. Fate Binds You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor shakes things up in the household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back, along with Abigail, as promised!

" _Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together,but do so with all your heart._ ” ― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

 

Abigail gave a squeak of surprise as Hannibal reached out in the dark to intercept her hand before she could shake his shoulder in an attempt to wake him. He glanced momentarily at the clock, took note of the early hour, then gave Abigail’s fingers a little squeeze of reassurance. “What is it, Abigail?”

“I’m probably imagining it,” she whispered, eyes wide in the darkened bedroom. “But I thought I heard something.”

As he rose, Hannibal glanced over his shoulder to where Will slept on, oblivious to Abigail's arrival. The doctor made a little whirling motion with his finger, indicating Abigail should turn away momentarily, before slipping out of bed and into his pajama pants, slippers, and robe. Once clothed, he took Abigail by the shoulders and sat her on the bed. “Wait here while I investigate.”

Hannibal walked through the house quickly, the dogs raising their heads as he passed by, clearly undisturbed by an intruder. The house felt empty to him, but he continued his survey regardless, eventually stepping outside. He purposefully turned off the motion sensitive lights before doing so, not wanting to draw more attention to himself than necessary.

For several moments, he waited, listening, observing. Although unable to pinpoint anything specific that was out of place, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. As he circled the house, intent on investigating the trees around the back, Will’s canine family made their collective way outside to join him.

From somewhere out of sight, a minute rustling was heard, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the cacophony of the dogs barking at the unseen observer. The pack tore off into the trees behind the house, determined to deter the unwanted visitor. By the time Will ran outside to join him, gun in hand and eyes wide with alarm, Hannibal had already detected the sound of a car starting up and pulling away in the distance.

“Did you see them?” Will looked to him expectantly as the dogs returned from their unsuccessful pursuit to circle around him protectively.

Hannibal narrowed his eyes at the darkness as if it were to blame for their current situation. “No.”

Will’s shoulders slumped as he realized he was standing outside in his underwear, holding a gun, with no particular course of action to take. “Shit.” Hannibal simply nodded his agreement as Will began rounding up the dogs to get them back in the house. “What now?”

Hannibal pondered for a moment before coming to his decision. “Perhaps an early breakfast is in order.”

~~~~~~~~~

Although Hannibal’s suggestion of breakfast had infuriated Will when it was originally proposed, he was having a hard time arguing with the course of action once they were all in the kitchen together, enticing aromas surrounding them as they shared the comfortingly familiar routine. It was hard to believe anything was amiss in the world with Hannibal cheerfully explaining to an eagerly attentive Abigail the benefits of the breakfast he was preparing and the particulars of his technique.

Regardless, Will had a hard time staying seated as the morning ritual unfolded, working against a compulsion to rise and peer through the curtains to see if their visitor had returned. Before coming downstairs to join Hannibal and Abigail, Will had called Jack to let him know what had happened.

Will had been afraid for as long as he could remember—Hannibal claimed it was an unfortunate side effect of his gifted imagination—but as of late, his fears had been centralized primarily around Hannibal and Abigail. He feared Abigail was more comfortable with Hannibal than himself, he feared the arrival of her child, he feared her continuing to live with them as much as he feared her deciding to live on her own. He feared Hannibal would wake up one morning and realize that life was much simpler before he met Will Graham. He feared he would do something to alienate Hannibal, push him away, yet also feared that Hannibal loved him unconditionally and wouldn’t leave no matter what Will threw at him. There was an endless supply of fears, the most pervasive being ones where outside forces tore his little family apart, leaving Will stranded in his own shadowy mind, in a sad little house somewhere with only scars and memories to keep him company.

His tension ratcheted up around what he considered key moments, as if fate particularly cared about the arbitrary anniversaries or events that comprised his life. As an example, when he and Hannibal had been about to close on purchasing the house, he had anxiously waited for a phone call telling him the doctor had been hit by a bus, or taken hostage, or killed by a stray bullet. And so on and so forth.

Hannibal seemed to know when these fears were overtaking his thoughts and somehow found a way to relax and distract him, but the nighttime visitor seemed to Will as something inevitable. That things would go horribly wrong seemed more comforting and realistic than believing he would be able to continue on in happiness with Hannibal and Abigail. It was difficult, suddenly having so much to lose.

And so he had called Jack, whispering what little he knew into his cell phone while in the bathroom with the water running, as if he were some sort of undercover agent deep inside a terrorist cell. He felt guilty over the call, yet wasn’t sure why.

“Will?”

He realized Abigail and Hannibal were looking at him expectantly. The doctor gave a little head tilt toward the coffee; between this clue and the mug Abigail was holding he finally had enough information to work with. “Yes, please.”

Will rubbed his palms into his eyes, hoping to push away his thoughts along with the all too familiar burning sensation that accompanied a lack of proper sleep. When he opened his eyes once again, a plate of food and a cup of coffee were waiting for him. “Thank you,” he heard himself saying. Time with Hannibal had apparently led to good manners being incorporated into his autopilot routine.

Abigail slid into her seat on the opposite side of the table, Hannibal following a moment later to sit across from Will. It was eery, the man’s ability to maintain his calm, pleasant demeanor regardless of the situation. Will wasn’t sure if he envied the ability, or resented it.

“Well then,” Hannibal motioned to Will’s plate, indicating he should begin eating. Abigail had already tucked in and was looking between the two men expectantly. Will took a forkful of eggs, momentarily annoyed as he realized just how hungry he was. Across from him, Hannibal smiled knowingly and began eating as well.

“I think it time we decided upon a course of action,” Hannibal said, an expression of concern settling over his elegant, angular visage. Will felt guilty all over again as he looked into his partner’s eyes, so stared down at his plate before stuffing another forkful of food into his mouth.

“I was thinking a gun.”

Will coughed as food began going down the wrong way, looking up at Abigail in alarm. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Her blue eyes wide with innocence,  Abigail gave a little shrug and took a sip of her juice. “I know how to use a firearm,” she reminded him. “I wind up here alone a bunch of the time… why not be able to defend myself?”

Hannibal smiled slyly for a moment as Will continued to gape. “I think not, Abigail. It was difficult enough arranging for you to live here. I think it unlikely Agent Crawford or Doctor Bloom would approve of you being armed.”

Abigail frowned at her breakfast and began moving bits and pieces around her plate. Her childish expression coupled with the now impossible to ignore curve of her pregnant belly made Will uncomfortable. “Hannibal’s right. Besides, we don’t need to complicate things with an accidental shooting.” He received a dirty look for the comment.

“I was thinking the first course of action should be to inform Jack Crawford of our visitor.” Will looked up quickly and was snared by Hannibal’s eyes. “I believe Will has already taken care of this for us.” He jerked in surprise as Hannibal reached across the table to place a hand over his own. Will wound his fingers through Hannibal’s, let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding as he nodded a confirmation.

“They’re going to see what they can find out,” he said with a little shrug. “There isn’t exactly much to work with, though. We’ll have someone watching the house. For a little while, at least.”

“So, best to remain vigilant,” Hannibal said, giving Will’s hand a squeeze before returning to his breakfast.

“Are we getting more dogs?” Abigail asked while protecting her plate as their current pack began circling the table, hopeful for scraps or an opportunity to help themselves to someone’s food.

“I was thinking you would come to work with me today, and I shall arrange for our home security to be upgraded. Perhaps between the two of us, Will and I can imagine a less drastic way for you to defend yourself?”

“Like a taser?” Abigail sounded alarmingly hopeful.

Will surprised himself by letting out a little bark of laughter at the question. He was more surprised when Hannibal took advantage of the moment to rise, lean across the table, and kiss him. They were normally careful about displays of affection in front of Abigail, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, but apparently the rules were different this morning. His mouth was still tingling pleasantly as another kiss was pressed against his forehead, then one against Abigail’s before Hannibal rose to get the bits of sausage he had saved for Will’s dogs.

The intense wave of possessive affection that rose inside of Will made it hard for him to breathe. “I love you,” he announced defiantly, annoyed by how helpless it made him feel. His mouth trembled a bit as he watched his hand shake against the surface of the table. “Both of you.”

“We love you, too, Will,” Abigail said. “Everything is going to be fine, you’ll see.” She made a little umph noise as she stood, taking her plate over to retrieve a second helping of food. He watched her go, vision swimming momentarily as he blinked back involuntary tears.

“Promise?” he was proud of how little of what he was feeling came through in his voice. It was almost lighthearted and teasing.

“Hannibal won’t let anything happen to us, will you?” She smiled up at the doctor. Hannibal returned her smile as he prevented her from helping herself to a cup of coffee.

“Of course not,” he answered calmly, meeting Will’s questioning gaze, his eyes broadcasting an uncomfortable melange of detached, almost alien curiosity and resignation mixed in with genuine tenderness. “I would never let either of you come to harm.”

Will could only look away and wonder to himself how it was that Hannibal had managed to become such a convincing liar, and why... Why did he have to choose that moment to allow Will to see the emptiness behind the words when all he wanted, more than anything, was to believe?


	5. Owning Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is called to a crime scene, Hannibal is of assistance, and Abigail is a little bonkers.

“ _Nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death_.” ― William S. Burroughs

The pendulum swung through Will’s mind, clearing the path for another's thoughts to take residency. He was himself, yet removed, as he walked through the version of the crime scene his imagination constructed for him.

"She doesn't know me, but I know her," he said, his tone flat. "She sees but does not see, and so she must be punished. I will be the last thing she will ever see." He felt the conviction of the killer and shuddered at the not entirely unpleasant sensation.

As he watched, the body on the floor stirred and almost perversely danced its way back into an upright position at the kitchen table, ribbons of blood weaving back into her body until she was seated again and surprised to see him. He felt the ghostly weight of a cast iron pan in his hand, but the sensation vanished quickly.

He walked backwards through the kitchen, unwinding time in his imagination, returning to the moments before she realized she was not alone in the house. She had been eating cereal, reading a magazine, oblivious. As he left the kitchen and entered the living room, Will struggled to hold on to the ebb and flow of his mental reconstruction, feeling the thoughts and emotions he was following unwinding in conflicting directions.

Something wasn’t right. He ground his teeth together in frustration, returned to the pendulum for a moment, clearing the conflict. "I waited for her to be seated, to be distracted by normalcy. It must be a day like any other. I wanted her to see... No." Will opened his eyes and surveyed the living room, spotted the closet. “ _I_ needed to see?”

The police hadn’t yet realized the closet required processing and so he would be forced to imagine the view, unable to enter the small space for fear of contaminating potential evidence. Inside the closet, then, he projected himself. He would have been looking through the slats, was sure there would be a clear view of the kitchen allowing him to wait for the right moment.

Even without entering the space, there was a smell wafting from the closet that reminded him of the rank sweat and fevered dreams of his encephalitis. Coats had been pushed aside to make room for the watcher and a section of carpet where he had stood was dark with dampness. _Fear and fear and fear…_ This wasn't right at all. Power was smeared throughout the bloody echoes of the kitchen, a strange, ecstatic revelry he understood all too easily. But the closet, the living room, the cast iron pan were all _wrong_.

Will looked around the living room, stomach in knots. She had been a knick-knack person when alive, and the room was filled with little statutes and trinkets. He couldn’t spot any visible photos as he slowly walked around, inventorying, but everywhere he looked, the figures had been turned to face the wall. Not right. He diverted his attention to a cluster of Hummels. There was a perfect circle in the dust where a figurine had once stood.

The pendulum swung in his mind, in time with his heartbeat. "I feel their eyes on me, watching, even after they’ve been given a time out, and so I hide," Will continued, pacing back to the closet. Over and over, the ‘other’ in his mind ran his fingers along the ridges and curves of the little figure in his pocket, calming himself, staying focused. A talisman to bolster, to help him do what must be done.

From the closet to the kitchen. She looks up, she does not understand. "I'm sorry," Will said as he approached the confused woman, because he was. This was not something he wanted, but he had a mission. He felt himself reaching out for something, anything, to make this all a memory, to complete the task, to be safe and… The ghostly weight of the cast iron pan was back in his hand. Something convenient to wield. She was so very surprised to see him there swinging it wildly at her head, no time to ask why this was happening to her.

Will looked down at the corpse in the kitchen from where he stood, pan resting on the floor to his left where the other had dropped it. The other him had been done, Will knew this with the certainty of knowing the sun would set and rise, yet the act his imagination had recreated had only been the beginning of what Will saw in the reality of now. The conflicting scenarios screamed at him, blaming him for his lack of vision. Will closed his eyes again and shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line. Everything was wrong. "This is not my design."

"What?"

Will shuddered involuntarily, blinking away the tears that had been forming. He felt like he was doing that a lot, lately. Jack Crawford was watching him expectantly. “Check the closet,” he managed, voice sounding raw. “I think he... pissed himself. While waiting."

Jack barked some orders and people began filing back into the house, careful not to openly stare at Will as they entered. Jack was shaking his head at the body on the ground. “This doesn’t seem like someone that would piss their pants.”

“No, it does not.” Will scrubbed a hand through his hair and crouched down to stare at the body before him. Her eyelids were gone, the face cut into a rictus of a smile. Beneath the blood soaked apron, she had been crudely opened and pieces of her internal workings had been torn free. Some of her breakfast cereal had been sprinkled into the hole as if the killer were adding a bit of lighthearted decoration for their benefit.

He could feel the weight of Jack's impatience. Obsessed as always, he wanted to be told it was the Ripper, even though he knew full well it was not. This was sloppy, confused, lacking all the grace of the Ripper.

“There’s a figurine missing out there, too,” Will said, gesturing behind him to the living room.

After more orders were issued, Jack stepped closer, invading Will’s personal space. “So he’s taking trophies.”

Will fondled the bottle of aspirin in his pocket. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he had needed them, but had become so used to its presence that his hand didn’t know what to do without the bottle there. For a moment, it felt like a figurine. “No. Not a trophy. The blow to the head,” he pointed to the wound in question, “was it fatal?”

“Near enough,” Jack confirmed. “We’re fairly certain the rest took place after she was struck, but we won’t know for sure until later.”

Will sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Jack wasn't going to like his theory; it wasn’t tidy. "This feels like two people."

The frown was immediate. "We barely have forensics on one and you're telling me there were two of them here?"

Will bit his lip to quell the inappropriate smile attempting to take hold of his face. "Not at the same time, no."

~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal frowned to himself upon seeing Abigail standing outside alone. He barely had an opportunity to stop the car before she had the door open and was climbing into the front passenger seat. “I thought we agreed you would be waiting inside with Doctor Bloom.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

The frown deepened as Hannibal turned off the car. “Is there a reason I would be required to contact my attorney?”

Abigail rolled her eyes at him as she buckled up. “For me, not you. So do you have one?”

“Of course.” They stared at each other, Hannibal wondering to himself for the thousandth time what his life would have been like if he had simply let Abigail bleed out on her kitchen floor. Simplier by far, he imagined. As if tethered to his psyche from miles away, Will chose that moment to send him a text message, the phone’s vibration serving as a subtle reprimand for Hannibal’s line of thinking.

He knew Will was working with Jack and had hoped for an excuse to pop in. Hannibal did so enjoy watching Will wind his way through a crime scene. Although he was certain whatever paltry aftermath awaited would lack true finesse and likely frustrate him with banality, it was still an opportunity to stimulate his senses with the materials his missed so deeply. He was certain he'd hear the details later in the evening, but it was much more enjoyable to be in the moment with Will as he assumed the mantle of the killer upon the stage of his imagination.

He broke the staring match to read: _I think you’d like this one_.

Hannibal sent a reply offering to be of any assistance Will required, then returned his attention to Abigail. “If you would be so inclined as to share the nature of your legal dilemma, I would be in a better position to help.”

Abigail sighed dramatically and folded her arms above the swell of her stomach. “She wants to steal her,” she answered cryptically. “I told her if she wants a baby so bad she should try having sex sometime.”

Hannibal imagined Alana hadn’t appreciated the rejoinder. He continued to stare, waiting for Abigail to clarify. The girl stared back, finally arched her eyebrows at him and widened her eyes as if to indicate he was being particularly thick. “How soon can we see the lawyer?”

“For the purposes of preventing Alana Bloom from stealing your child.”

“Yes.”

Their staring match continued, Abigail’s eyes cold and purposeful in a way that warmed the cockles of Hannibal’s heart. It would be interesting to see how far Abigail would be willing to go if she felt Alana was a threat. “Very well, then.” He gave her knee a little squeeze and started the car back up as Abigail smiled a nasty, victorious smile.

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements when we get home. Would you like to see a different doctor?”

“Nope.”

Keeping her “enemies” close, then. Hannibal approved. His pocket vibrated once more. _Got permission for walkthrough. Can you come?_

“Abigail, Will is requesting my assistance at a crime scene. Can I trust you to stay in the car?”

~~~~~~~~~

Will was frowning as Hannibal walked up to the house. “You brought Abigail?” He forced an awkward smile onto his face and waved to Abigail before glowering again. “Is that really the best idea?”

“How are you Beverly?” Hannibal asked, ignoring Will entirely for the moment.

“Fine, thanks for asking,” she replied with a large, knowing smile. She followed Will’s cue and waved to Abigail where she waited in the car. “Nice day for a crime scene.”

With the pleasantries exchanged, Hannibal returned his attention to Will, pitching his voice low. “I felt Abigail waiting in a car surrounded by law enforcement personnel was preferable to leaving her home alone.”

Will’s frown deepened, but he nodded a resigned agreement before looking away, his body language broadcasting his agitated state. Hannibal’s face revealed none of his inner delight or anticipation as Beverly opened the door, gesturing magnanimously for them to enter.

The smell hit him first, as it always did, his heightened olfactory system protesting at the rank combinations while something warm and blissful uncoiled within his abdomen; the comforting sense of coming home. Hannibal’s nostrils flared as he took it all in, feeling for all the world like a kid in a candy store.

He clasped his hands behind his back and quickly surveyed the living room before making a beeline for the closet. Hannibal sensed Will and Beverly watching as he stuck his head into the small space to investigate. From their angle they wouldn’t be able to see him close his eyes as he breathed in the lingering smells of fear and panic, lovely as it was offensive.

Hannibal proceeded to the kitchen where the real fun had taken place. He imagined the woman had been passably attractive before someone took liberties with her corpse. She was a mess, really, but it was fairly clear to him that whoever altered her was still in the early stages of his craft. Perhaps with some more time and careful application there was hope for a more artful execution. If he was lucky, it would take some time for Jack Crawford to catch this one, allowing Hannibal to observe the evolution of the execution.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the corpse. Beverly paused for a moment before catching on, pulling out a pair of nitrile gloves for him. “Thank you.”

In his peripheral vision, Hannibal saw the little involuntary jerk Will’s body gave in response to the snapping sound made as he pulled on the gloves. His lover was firing on all cylinders, body still pumping out inappropriate levels of adrenaline. Hannibal allowed himself the briefest of moments to ponder whether or not Will, in his heightened state, would allow himself to be brought to a sexual climax at a crime scene, and how long it would take before he stopped feeling disgusted with himself for doing so.

Momentary mental indulgence taken care of, Hannibal returned his attention to the matter at hand, delighted to find the expected wound waiting for him beneath the apron. Sloppy and not particularly imaginative, but still… it made Hannibal nostalgic even as his perfectionist nature forced him to take note of all the little failures laid out before him. It was hard sometimes, having standards.

Hannibal carefully slid a gloved finger over the ragged edges of the opening, thinking fondly of the clean precision of his scalpel. A cautious examination of the cavity revealed the extent of the damage within, which almost effectively masked the missing kidney and pancreas. Assuming the on scene personnel had already ascertained that organs were absent, Jack would almost certainly be pushing Will toward a Chesapeake Ripper connection.

The breakfast cereal was a particularly whimsical and amateur addition, Hannibal felt. He examined the distinctive shapes of the vile marshmallows and toasted oat pieces. Based upon her chosen diet, the killer had done this woman a favor as far as he was concerned. Hannibal rose to his feet, studied the remains of her breakfast and felt a little stirring of hope within. At least this one was _attempting_ to be interesting, and he was in generous enough a mood to award points for trying.

Hannibal peeled off his bloody gloves and extended his elegant hand in Beverly’s direction, silently requesting a fresh pair. Will and Beverly watched as he pulled them on, then opened the cabinets above the stove with the same enthusiasm one might expect from one throwing open balcony doors to welcome a stunning view. The box of Lucky Charms was waiting there, nestled amidst the other boxes of breakfast cereal, as he knew it would be. The weight confirmed his suspicions as he removed it from the cabinet to place it gently upon the countertop.

“I believe you will find a ‘prize’ inside,” he announced, stepping aside to allow Beverly the honor of opening the box. As he hovered behind her, he drank in Will’s blown pupils and dreamlike expression. “This is quite the curious collaboration, Will.”

His words had the desired effect. Will tore his gaze from Beverly to look at Hannibal, a wild and ill advised smile momentarily conquering his face before being beaten back. “Collaboration?” He attempted to sound innocent, but was clearly pleased by Hannibal’s assessment of the situation.

“I assume Jack was less than pleased when you told him there were two persons involved, which is why he accepted your offer to bring me along for a second opinion.”

“Guys, looks like we found our missing organs,” Beverly announced, cradling a mass of cereal encrusted kidney. “Nice work, Hannibal.”

“So you’d agree then,” Will said, ignoring Beverly’s announcement. Hannibal exited the kitchen to make room as Brian and Jimmy came in to snap pictures and examine the cereal box’s unconventional surprise. Jack had followed them in and looked his usual, cranky self as he waited for them to join him in the living room.

“Well?”

“It appears you have a partnership on your hands.” Hannibal purposefully repositioned himself to stand closer to Will, breathing in the pleasant combination of his fear with that of the remains in the kitchen. “Although, it is uncertain as to whether your killer was a willing participant.”

“Sounds like you and Will are in agreement then.”

Hannibal prepared to elucidate, but before he had a chance a commotion from outside had their collective attention. “That sounds like Abigail,” Will said before running from the house.

Abigail was standing next to Hannibal’s car, cheeks flushed with anger. Hannibal wasn’t surprised to see the target of her displeasure was none other than Freddie Lounds.

“You’re disgusting,” Abigail shouted, fists balled up at her sides. “He’s like a father to me!”

Freddie blinked innocently, impish smile in full effect. “So, you’re confirming for me that Will Graham is a serial killer, then?” The man in question shoved himself between the two women just as Abigail lunged forward, apparently intent on scratching out Freddie’s eyes. The reporter took a step or two backwards, bumping into Jack Crawford as she did so.

“Why am I not surprised? Get her out of here,” Jack ordered to a nearby officer.

“No comment for me then?”

Hannibal circled closer, placing a comforting hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “One of these days you’re going to play your little game with the wrong person,” Abigail shouted, voice shrill, “and you’ll wind up dead!” As if feeling this wasn’t sufficient, she added, “Bitch!”

“Abigail,” he chided, but before he could get very far she was holding up his iPad as if it were a shield, moving it back and forth between the two men, making it difficult to register what was on the screen.

“Shit,” Will breathed, having reached out to grab the device. Shoulder to shoulder, the men peered down and finally understood why Abigail was so upset.

COULD THIS BE A SHRIKE LOVE NEST?

Below the TattleCrime.com headline were several photos taken at their house from a distance, sections blown up and called out in typical tabloid fashion. Hannibal was easily able to place the morning they would have been taken. Abigail had rushed to catch Will before he left without his cell phone, still dressed only in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, had gotten an appreciative kiss on her cheek for the trouble. The swell of her pregnant belly was clearly visible, and the comfortable closeness between the two in combination with Abigail’s attire painted a very different picture of the encounter.

  
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Will said, the words spit from between clenched teeth. Hannibal removed the iPad from his lover’s grip before it was thrown to the ground in a moment of anger. Sure enough, a cursory scan of the article confirmed Hannibal’s suspicions; Freddie Lounds was claiming Will Graham was the father of Abigail’s unborn child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer, as the next chapter is a bit shorter... and also mostly hanky-panky.


	6. Escaping and Forgetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal helps Will release some of the tension he's dealing with.

“ _We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose_.” ― Charles Baudelaire

Hannibal looked up from the book he was reading as Will entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a bit too much force. He slumped against the solid wood, chin tilted up as he lightly banged the back of his head against the door. Hannibal closed the book and waited.

“I think Abigail can finally be trusted not to sneak out and murder Freddie Lounds,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face. “At least we know who was skulking around the house.”

“So it seems,” Hannibal agreed, uncrossing his legs and settling back in his chair.

Will sighed, but then smiled a strange little smile. “She _seems_ to have left you out of the equation for some reason.”

Hannibal licked his lips as Will began to cross the room, able to smell the man’s desire as he approached. “Ms. Lounds does appear to prefer her little fictions over reality.”

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to help the situation if I ask her to print a retraction on the grounds that I’m actually sleeping with my therapist.”

Will took the book from Hannibal’s hands and set it aside before straddling his lap. Hannibal shifted against the weight of Will, repositioning him slightly in order to better pull his mouth down for a kiss.

He was continually amazed by this strange betrayal of his body and mind where Will was concerned. Sex had never been of particular interest to him in the past, although early on in his life he had done the necessary experimenting with both males and females. The supposed benefits of taking a lover had never come close to offsetting the rewards of his solitary pleasures. What possible temptation could the mundane pursuits of the flesh be when held aloft in comparison to feelings of Godhood?

Will Graham filled him with a hunger he found occasionally depressing, unable to avoid the conclusion that he was attempting to fill the void left by the absence of his art by indulging his basic animalistic need for sex; as if the two had anything to do with each other. It was so very ordinary, he felt he should be above it all. And yet...

Hannibal began undoing Will’s shirt, wanting to run his hands over bare skin. Will ground against him, sending blood pumping to Hannibal’s groin. He could feel Will’s body trembling with the nervous aftermath of a day of emotional and psychological extremes. His pupils were blown, the brilliant blue barely visible. His breathing was heavy as he wound fingers through Hannibal’s hair, kissing the doctor hungrily. This wouldn’t be one of their long, drawn out affairs then.

Will gasped loudly when Hannibal pulled his shirt aside to suck at a nipple, grabbing handfuls of Will’s ass to guide his movements, to rock them against each other, Will’s cock already hard and eager between them. “Will you be able to be quiet for me tonight?” Hannibal asked throatily, watching Will break out in gooseflesh in response to the question.

“I can’t promise anything,” he whispered. Early on into living together Abigail had been kind enough to tease them over breakfast one morning, making it apparent that sound carried from the bedroom more than they’d anticipated.

“Take all this off,” Will ordered, pulling on Hannibal’s tie and plucking at the expensive fabric of his shirt. Will quickly removed his own shirt, then helped Hannibal until they were both bare chested and kissing once more. Will tasted faintly of whiskey, which Hannibal found appropriate, considering how often the man made him feel drunk.

Will seemed intent on touching as much of Hannibal as he could get his hands on, continuing to rock against him as he finished their kiss by dragging his teeth over the man’s lower lip. He climbed off of Hannibal’s lap, warmth and weight instantly missed even as he sank to his knees and began rubbing his cheek against the bulge in Hannibal’s pants. Hannibal sighed and feathered his fingers through Will’s hair, stroked his cheek and smiled as he took note of Will touching himself.

Before he knew it, Will had pulled him free and was licking his way up to the head of Hannibal’s cock. He wasted no time taking it in his mouth, sucking hungrily and moaning softly as Hannibal stroked across his cheek, his jaw, the sensitive spot behind his ear. As much as Hannibal was enjoying the attention, he knew this evening was really about Will needing to feel like himself again, to shake off the phantoms he had let within the confines of his mind earlier in the day.

Hannibal rose to his feet, allowed himself another thrust or two into Will’s warm mouth, then pulled the man up off of his knees, wrapped him in an almost uncomfortably tight embrace, and began walking them over to the bed. Will allowed himself to be almost carried across the room, kissing Hannibal deeply as they went, until the bed hit the back of his knees and Hannibal let go. A little laugh escaped Will as he bounced with the force of his landing.

Will impatiently wriggled out of his pants, throwing them across the room before scrambling over to the bedside table to retrieve some lube. Hannibal caught it easily when it was thrown his direction, motioned for Will to return to the edge of the bed.

He swallowed Will’s moans, resuming their kiss as he worked one, then two lubed fingers into the urgent body beneath him. Will stroked Hannibal’s cock arrhythmically, other hand wrapped firmly around his own, a writhing mass of desire. He grabbed handfuls of Hannibal’s ass, pulled him closer and ground up against him, whispering, “please,” as he did so.

Hannibal expected Will would be a bit sore in the morning, but perhaps he needed to carry the physical reminder with him through the day. Hannibal conceded, teased the head of his cock back and forth against Will’s opening before slowly pushing his way inside, holding Will down as he did so.

He had discovered that while bondage did nothing for him, Will loved it when Hannibal held him down using just his hands and careful pressure. It was less to do with restraint and more to do with being grounded in his own body, Hannibal suspected. Will had managed to leave finger shaped bruises on more than one occasion by holding onto Hannibal as if his life depended on it.

So Hannibal draped one of Will’s legs over his shoulder, wrapped an arm tightly around his thigh, pressed a hand against Will’s chest and slowly fucked him into the mattress. Promises of being quiet were forgotten, Will letting out a low keening noise as his eyes rolled back into his head. Hannibal stopped for a moment to gently place a hand over Will’s mouth as a reminder. When he pulled it aside, Will was smiling up at him blissfully.

He enjoyed watching Will’s eyes flutter open and closed with pleasure, appreciated the way Will gazed up at him as if Hannibal was the end and beginning. It paled in comparison to the chaos and awe one saw in the eyes of a person before they died, but Hannibal had never much cared for what they felt or thought in their last moments, anyway. He did care for Will, though, and observed with great intensity.

Will was too keyed up to allow Hannibal to take his time, as was the doctor’s preference. The younger man began stroking his cock roughly in time with Hannibal’s thrusts, and all too soon was coming all over himself, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out too loudly. Hannibal bent forward, captured Will’s mouth for a sloppy, breathless kiss, Will reaching up to grab a handful of hair in order to hold him in place. After a few moments, Hannibal broke free and took Will firmly by the hips in order to better thrust himself to completion.

Hannibal brushed Will's hair back from his forehead, stroked the side of his face and kissed him again. "You are mine, Will Graham," he said softly, not sure who he was reminding.

Soon, they would need to clean up, but for now he was content to kiss and pet Will, help push aside the lingering sense of other he was invariably left with after a trip into the mind of a killer. Will sighed and stretched beneath him, working out the kinks as Hannibal watched with appreciation.

"What are we going to do about Freddie Lounds?" Will asked, breaking the mood.

"Abigail wants to talk to a lawyer." He conveniently left out Abigail's original reason for the visit.

"She's right, you know." Will made his way to the adjoining bathroom to start the water running for a shower. "Some day she's going to say the wrong thing about the wrong person and end up part of a crime scene of her very own."

~~~~~~~~~~~

  
There were many people who read the Tattle Crime article, but one in particular found it to be all the more fascinating for having witnessed Abigail's tirade earlier in the day. He smiled to himself and read it over again. He was happy. Life had taken one of its little turns, had brought them all together without him having to lift so much as a finger. He decided it might be best to send Freddie Lounds some flowers as a sign of his appreciation.


	7. Shapes of Your Own Choosing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another body.

“ _Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing_.” ― George Orwell, _1984_

 

Will wasn't surprised when another body was found several weeks later. What did surprise him was the location Jack had provided, which turned out to be an alleyway behind an Italian restaurant in Baltimore. He had anticipated another home invasion, yet here he was, confusedly looking down at what appeared to be the corpse of a homeless woman. A cursory inspection showed she had been strangled with an electrical cord of some kind, the prongs of the plug visibly poking out from the matted mess of her hair. Her bulging eyes looked waxy and seemed to be filled with questions Will had no answers to. 

"We have Anderson to thank," Beverly announced as she sidled up to Will. She first pointed to a police officer standing nearby, then the woman's fist. It was almost hidden, as her arm was pinned beneath her own body, but Will could see she was clutching a small figurine in one hand. "Apparently he actually paid attention to those bulletins we sent out, spotted the Hummel, and here we are!" 

Will's heart began to race as he fought off the sudden urge to close her eyes. They had been able to determine their killer was a woman through DNA taken from the urine left in the closet of the first crime scene, but it was still a shock to see her there, broken and left out like garbage. He wanted to pry the figurine loose, interrogate it.

"This feel right to you?" Jack asked.

"Not at all," Will admitted. He stood up, moved aside so work could continue at the scene. He realized he was clutching the ever present aspirin bottle in his pocket with enough force to hurt his hand. It took several deep breaths and a concerted effort before he could bring himself to let go.

Not wanting another serial killer on his hands, Jack had held out hope for some sort of bizarre love triangle gone wrong. Hannibal had postulated that their killer might be a reluctant participant, which could explain why she was now decomposing in an alley. Will had simply thought of her as on a mission she did not necessarily find appealing. Driven, yet reluctant. He had hoped to talk to her in order to understand but, as was too often the case, he was left with only decomposing flesh and his own imagination.

"We're still working on the ID," Beverly was saying. He had tuned out. "Mid-twenties, looks like she was living rough for a while. Killed elsewhere, dumped here. The body shows signs of having been kept refrigerated, so no time of death yet." 

Will spoke without thinking. “If he hasn’t found one already, he’s looking for a new…” he wanted to say puppet, or possibly playmate, but settled with, “proxy.”

“Great,” Beverly replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“The more we learn about her, the better we’ll be able to determine where he’ll find the next one,” Will continued, unable to look away from the staring, empty eyes of the corpse. He couldn’t bring himself to state the obvious, that it was unlikely they’d know anything in time to prevent another murder, and that without more victims they might not ever discover the identity of the person they sought.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal opened his office door to an obviously troubled Will Graham, feeling a peculiar and invigorating sense of déjà vu. The man brushed past him and into the room, dropping his satchel on the couch before slumping into a chair. He didn't stay put for long, nervous energy causing him to rise and begin pacing almost immediately after Hannibal had settled into the chair opposite him.

"What's troubling you, Will?"

He circled the room, hovering near the harpsichord before settling on leaning against Hannibal’s desk. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw and untrustworthy. "We found the killer. Her... partner strangled her and dumped the body in an alley."

"That is unfortunate." If he were a different man, he might have used a more concerned tone of voice, or offered comfort in a variety of ways, but that was not who Hannibal was. It also wasn’t what Will wanted or needed. He had come to the office to seek the advice of Dr. Lecter, not for coddling from a lover.

Will pressed his lips together and slowly nodded his agreement, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. "Unfortunate. Yes."

Hannibal admiringly watched the flickering storm of conflicting emotions wash over Will's features. Some day they would be parted, either by death or by consequence of his crimes, and just in case he was still alive when that happened, Hannibal wanted to record and remember every beautiful aspect of Will.

The object of his fascination seemed to shudder back to an awareness of who and where he was. "I didn't say anything to Jack, but I'm almost positive we're going to find out she was mentally ill. 

“What led you to this conclusion?”

Will finally decided to sit—more perching than sitting—on the edge of the chair opposite Hannibal, elbows digging into knees and head in hands. “I can’t explain,” he snuck a look at the doctor, eyes bright with distress before looking away. “She had the little figurine with her,” he added sotto voce. “It made me...” He trailed off, made a strange, almost dismissive gesture with his hand before settling back into silence. 

It was clear to Hannibal that Will was more troubled by the end their killer had met than he had been by the original crime scene. "You feel used and abandoned on her behalf." 

There was a snicker before Will sighed and settled back into the chair wearing a crooked, uneasy smile. “Yes, actually.” His eyes seemed to dare Hannibal to ask about his mother, or abandonment in general. 

“You’ve had your own flirtation with madness,” Hannibal said, clinical tone in full effect. 

Will shook his head, removed his glasses in order to rub his eyes. “Yes, I have.” 

A part of Hannibal thought longingly of his original plans for Will, wondered what would have come of it all. Would he have accepted the new world Hannibal had hoped to show him? If so, his very acceptance could have broken the spell between them, leaving Hannibal in the same position as this mysterious manipulator. Bored and burdened with an unnecessary accomplice. “I imagine you sometimes wonder what might have happened, had your illness remained undetected.” 

“I guess I’m lucky I had you.” 

Hannibal gave a subtle nod of agreement before leaning forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “Earlier you suggested your killer died at the hands of her partner. This person you seek seems to delight in manipulation, despite a newfound desire to get his hands dirty.”

Will’s eyes seemed to lose focus as he contemplated Hannibal’s words for a moment, but he perked up as understanding settled into place. “He’s already found a new playmate.”

“It stands to reason he might wish to ‘break in’ a new collaborator by having them eliminate their predecessor.” Will was already nodding his agreement before Hannibal had finished speaking. “Have you learned anything else about our victim?”

“She kept to herself,” Will answered, rising from his seat. “No family to speak of, her co-workers were useless. They couldn’t even find anything particularly interesting when going through her computer.”

Hannibal watched as Will gathered up his satchel. Their puppet master would have known his instrument of destruction would need time to psych herself up before being able to strike a killing blow. He also needed enough time to safely return in order to revel in the aftermath and add his signature to the work. Their victim had been purposefully chosen because he felt she was someone who wouldn’t be missed for some time. He wondered if this had caused Will to give any thought to his own previously solitary lifestyle.

“How was the body found?”

Will shuffled impatiently near the door. “There was a mix up with the mail. A few of the victim’s bills were delivered to a neighbor who was expecting a check and figured she might have his mail. Her car was there, so when there was no answer at the front, he went around the back and happened to look through the window after knocking for awhile. The curtains were just sheer enough for him to make out that she was on the kitchen floor, so he called 911.”

Hannibal leaned back in his seat, steepling his hands in front of him. “This manipulator you seek has done this before.” He watched the tension take hold of Will’s body. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he has been convincing others to kill for him for quite some time.”

It was something Will had obviously known already, but had been unwilling to acknowledge. The defeated slump of his shoulders told Hannibal as much. Will worried at his lower lip with his teeth before giving a defeated nod of agreement.

“While he may have chosen to disguise some as suicides or accidents, it would have been more enjoyable to wrap things up neatly for the police. I would have Jack’s team look into paired instances, if possible.”

“Cases where shortly after a murder they then find their prime suspect dead.”

“A convenient drug overdose, or a suicide out of supposed guilt over what they had done,” Hannibal added.

Will was watching him the way a starving man might look at food kept just out of reach. Hannibal knew that some small part of Will needed him to cross the room, wrap him up in an embrace, and tell him he’d find this killer before another person died needlessly. Hannibal also knew that if he were to do so, Will would resent him for it. Instead, he simply stared unblinkingly at his lover until the other man had to look away. 

“I probably won’t be home for dinner,” Will said, frowning to himself as he left. He paused just before closing the door behind him, looked over his shoulder to where Hannibal still sat, watching. “Thank you.” 

“My pleasure, Will.”

Hannibal remained seated for a moment or two before making his way over to the harpsichord. He felt a little Bach would do nicely, and soon the room was joyously alive with the sounds of his playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been generous enough to leave a kudo or a comment! It's been a relief to know I'm not the only one enjoying myself. ;)


	8. Beautiful Surfaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly and Alana attempt to take Will's mind off of his current case.

“ _There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth._ ” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Alana stepped back quickly so as to avoid being run over by Will Graham as he hastily exited through the door she was intending to enter. “Hi there!”

Next came what Alana thought of as Will’s Processing Delay, the time necessary to untangle himself from his interior world and recognize ongoing interactions in the exterior. She watched the confusion and embarrassment flicker across his face before Will awkwardly shuffled out of the way. “Hi, sorry,” he said. “Looks like you caught me just as I was leaving.”

“Actually, I wasn’t trying to catch you at all,” she said, cocking her head to side. Will looked appropriately confused, but before he could say anything Beverly exited the B.A.U. through the doors behind him. Alana gestured in her direction, explaining, “I’m here for her.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Beverly was saying, shrugging into her coat. “Will and I got lost in serial killer land. Again.” She gave him a little punch on the shoulder as a sly smile crept across her face. “Hey, we’re going out for drinks. Wanna join us?”

What Alana wanted was to punch Beverly, but much harder than Beverly had just punched Will. Instead, she shot her friend a, “ _what are you doing_?” look, which was met with a half shrug, as if to say, “ _even I don’t know, sometimes_.”

During all of this, Will had removed his glasses and was rubbing the bridge of his nose. He surprised them both by quickly answering, “Fuck, yes.”

“Okay then, let’s get this going,” Beverly said, eyes wide and impish as she smiled at Alana. “You can follow us. The only rule is no shop talk.”

When they were at what Alana now thought of as her and Beverly’s place, drinks in hand, there was a moment of awkward silence after their initial clinking of the glasses. Naturally, Beverly took the initiative. “So, how crazy is it living with a psychiatrist, a pregnant woman, and a pack of dogs?”

Will smiled crookedly and tipped his glass of whiskey in Beverly’s direction before draining it. The two women exchanged a look as he did so, Alana fighting the urge to kick her friend under the table. “Different. Very different,” he finally answered. For a long moment there was another round of uncomfortable silence before Will followed up with, “I caught them dancing the other day,” his mystified tone of voice causing the women to laugh in surprise.

“Okay, before my imagination runs away with ideas about Hannibal twerking, you really need to clarify.”

“I get the feeling I don’t want to know what that is,” Will answered, brow furrowed. “This was some sort of ballroom dancing, which they’ve apparently been doing regularly. Although, Hannibal says it's tougher now that Abigail is farther along in the pregnancy.”

“So did you join in?” Beverly asked, leaning forward and grinning maniacally. Will shook his head in the negative, but Beverly wasn’t buying it. “Liar, you totally did! I bet Hannibal is a good dancer.”

“Technically, what I did can’t be called dancing,” Will clarified, confessing to the white lie, “and I have yet to find something Hannibal isn’t good at.”

“Really?” Beverly’s tone was dripping with innuendo, so this time Alana did give her a little kick under the table. Or, rather, attempted to do so. Will gave a soft yelp of surprise when Alana made contact with his leg. Beverly gave him a little conciliatory pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, I think that was intended for me.”

“Abigail seems to be enjoying the new living arrangements,” Alana said quickly, trying to gloss over the moment. Will was nodding again, looking down into his empty glass as if he were at the table alone. Alana tried again. “You seem well.”

“No, I don’t,” he countered, although he was smiling when he glanced up at her. “Though I appreciate the lie.”

Alana arched an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Beverly. “Problems at home, or…?”

He shook his head again, gave a little chuckle. “No. Home is fine. Better than fine. Alarmingly better than fine.”

“A happy home life equals a state of alarm, huh?” Beverly asked. “Personally, I’d love some alarm if you’ve got too much.”

Will sighed and tapped his empty glass against the surface of the table. As if he was talking to himself, he quietly said, “The problem with having something, especially something good, is the knowledge that it’s all only temporary.”

Beverly shared a worried look with Alana. “I’m sensing you’re not a glass half full kind of guy.”

“I guess I’m too used to it being empty,” he showed her his empty glass before getting up from the table. The women watched as he returned to the bar for another round.

“Sorry, I didn’t think he’d say yes,” Beverly whispered to Alana once he was out of earshot, looking genuinely repentant.

“I’m sort of glad you did.” She leaned across the table. “I’m starting to realize I might have dodged a bullet where Will is concerned.”

Beverly laughed and quickly covered her mouth. “I guess cute and tortured is only fun in small doses,” she conceded, raising her glass to Alana. “We need to find you someone that doesn’t spend most of their time trying to think like a killer.”

“What were you guys working on? I haven’t seen Will like this in a while.”

The special agent wagged her finger at Alana. “No shop talk.”

When Will returned he had another whiskey, along with a pint of dark beer to keep it company. “Thanks for inviting me. I know I’m not the life of the party right now.”

“You will be if you keep it up,” Beverly pointed out as Will made short work of the whiskey. Before he could reply, they were interrupted by the sounds of abrasive pop music. The three of them looked around the table at each other, none immediately claiming ownership to the song that had been set as a ringtone. “That’s not me.”

“Don’t look at me,” Alana added.

The two women looked to Will as “Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy, Me” continued to play. He closed his eyes as if to give himself strength before reaching behind him to where his jacket hung on the chair in order to pull the offending phone from his pocket. “Hello?” There was a pause. “No problem.” He ended the call and placed the phone on the table in front of him. “Wrong number.”

“Nice ringtone.” Alana somehow managed to sound innocent while making the comment.

Will sighed loudly before slouching back in his seat. “Abigail has an interesting sense of humor,” he explained, tapping the surface of the phone for emphasis. “Last time it was somebody named Ke$ha? I don’t know. I’ve changed the lock code three or four times now and she still manages to get in.”

“So, is there a method to her madness, or does she just like embarrassing you?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s still holding a grudge over Hannibal and I not owning a TV,” Will explained. “Although, he hasn’t been on the receiving end of any pranks.”

Beverly grinned and raised her glass to Will. “Here’s to smart girls.” Will returned her smile and raised his own glass in reciprocation. “Just wait until there is a baby in the mix. Does Abigail know what she’s having?”

“She refused to have them tell her the sex of the child. She says she already knows its a girl.”

“I have a friend who was the same way with her first,” Beverly said. “Everything in the nursery was pink and princess themed for a little girl and whoops! It’s a boy.”

Will started on his beer with a bit too much gusto. Alana watched him, concern growing. “Abigail mentioned she and Hannibal were putting together a nursery.”

“You should come see it.” The invitation sounded flat and false.

“You’re totally freaked out about this baby, aren’t you?” Beverly asked, getting to the point.

“More like terrified.” As if to illustrate exactly how on edge he was, Will jerked in surprise as the phone on the table began ringing again. “It’s still the wrong number, genius,” he muttered to himself as he sent the call to voicemail. As an afterthought, he switched the phone to silent.

Without thinking, Alana reached over and placed a comforting hand over Will’s and was surprised when he adjusted to take her hand in his, squeezing her fingers gently. Something about the way he tried to gauge her reaction through his peripheral vision broke Alana’s heart. She squeezed back and felt guilty over her comment to Beverly, even if every moment with Will was showing her what she had known all along; they were not suited for each other in the least.

“It’s going to be scary,” Beverly was saying, “but the first time that baby pukes on one of Hannibal’s expensive suits you’ll realize how much entertainment kids can provide.”

Will laughed and used his free hand to adjust the items nearby until they were lined up neatly. Something in the way Will was minutely adjusting the phone caught Alana’s attention. Just on a hunch, she said, “Speaking of Hannibal, why don’t you see if he wants to join us?”

She almost laughed at the look of relief and gratitude Will gave her in response to the question. He didn’t bother to ask if she was sure. Instead, he snatched up the phone, took another long pull from his glass, and headed outside to call Hannibal. Beverly and Alana sat in silence for a moment before they both began laughing.

“Man oh man oh man,” Beverly exclaimed, pushing her hair back from her face. “That poor guy.”

“It’s not funny,” Alana replied, smacking Beverly’s arm playfully. “I feel awful laughing.”

“Once the kid shows up, he’ll be too tired to remember that he was scared shitless.”

“I get the feeling family is a foreign concept to Will,” Alana said, looking down at the glasses Will had left behind. “Let’s take it easy on the baby talk when he comes back.”

Beverly tried a few other topics, but at some point realized the best way to make Will feel at ease was to leave him out of the conversation entirely. She and Alana chatted away, occasionally sharing a smile over the way Will was watching the door. Neither of them had to be told when Hannibal arrived, as their quiet companion suddenly stirred back to life in his chair. Watching the transformation take place, Alana suddenly had a profound understanding of how deeply Hannibal had burrowed his way into Will’s heart. She wondered if anyone would ever light up in the same way upon seeing her enter a room.

The doctor took his time coming over to the table. Having consulted the bartender, he brought with him a fresh drink for each of the ladies, as well as his own. “Good evening.”

“Now that’s a class act right there,” Beverly exclaimed, beaming up at Hannibal as he placed her drink on the table with a bit of flourish.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” Alana added, smiling as her own offering was placed before her.

As she watched Will watching Hannibal gracefully shed his suit jacket, Alana found herself momentarily uncomfortable. The two men hadn’t said a word to each other, but it felt like an entire conversation was taking place between them in a language she did not speak.

Hannibal’s tie had been left at home, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the long lines of his neck. He still wore a vest, but was slowly and carefully rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Will was watching this take place with his mouth slightly open and a hungry look in his eyes. Alana blushed at the realization that the simple, innocent act had completely different connotations for Will. It was as if he was watching an erotic strip tease take place. The tension he had been carrying, the palpable sense of dread that seemed to hover around him, had melted away to be replaced with a decidedly different sort of tension.

Unlike Will, Hannibal was happy to chat about Abigail’s daughter and kept up a steady stream of cheerful dialogue with Beverly. Alana returned to her drink in a hopes to distract herself, attempted to join in best she could, but it was difficult to ignore the quiet hunger of Will. When Hannibal savored his first sip of wine, Will swallowed and licked his own lips reciprocally. Will watched every movement Hannibal made, sighing almost inaudibly as the doctor ran his thumb along the rim of his wine glass to gather a drop before it spilled, bringing it to his mouth rather than dabbing it on a napkin, eyes never leaving Will’s face.

There was something decidedly strange in the air. It wasn’t just the sexual tension, it was something in the way that Hannibal was conversing with Will without ever saying a word, something Alana was only able to see the edges of. She watched his fingers as he toyed with a napkin, feeling a strange fluttering panic as her imagination forced her to think of those hands caressing Will’s body, understanding that Will was likely thinking the same thing.

She was relieved when Hannibal declined another round. “Perhaps another time. I think I ought to take Will home, instead.”

She watched the careful distance they maintained during their goodbyes and while exiting the bar, for all the world nothing but colleagues. Alana let out the breath she felt she’d been holding since Hannibal’s arrival and laughed as Beverly slapped her hand down against the table. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“Stop! That was bad enough,” Alana waved her hands in front of her as if to shield herself from Beverly’s words. “I can’t take anymore.”

“All I’m going to say is you have to admit, Hannibal is good at smouldering,” Beverly said. “We need to invent cloning already so I can have one, too.”

Alana shook her head, “I think this is the first time I’ve really, truly, noticed how… different Hannibal is. Since Will, I mean. They’re actually _good_ together.”

“The bastards,” Beverly added with a smile.

“Abigail too,” Alana added. “She’s been making such progress since they moved in together.”

“Well, then, here’s to strange, alarmingly fine families,” Beverly proposed. She and Alana clinked their glasses together in a toast before relaxing into their evening. Beverly would never have guessed that someday she might think of that evening and find herself crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many nice comments popping up recently -- thanks a million times over to one and all! You made my day(s). Things are going to get darker, soon *hugs Will* so I couldn't resist a little interlude. Also couldn't resist a subtle nod to the Hannibal Crack Vids. Also also, I might have an unhealthy fascination with Hannibal's hands & forearms. *cough*


	9. Madness in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit peculiar for Will at a crime scene, leaving him shaken and doubting his own sanity.

  
“ _There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness._ ”—Friedrich Nietzsche

Will knew from the way Jack held himself as he entered the lecture hall that their killer had claimed another victim. He drifted off mid-sentence, seemingly oblivious to the confused murmuring of his students as the pause stretched on and on. Jack filled the void with, “Sorry, folks, class is over a little early today.”

One by one, the young hopefuls filed out of the room, some moving slower than necessary in an attempt to overhear something interesting. Will had turned off the projector and was gathering his things in anticipation of a hasty departure. “It’s the Puppet Master, isn’t it?”

“Now, why’d you have to go and give him a nickname?” Jack asked, irritated. He began stalking from the room, leaving Will having to to scurry after him.

“Zeller started it,” Will said, then realized how preposterous he sounded. “Is this another victim, or another accomplice?”

“You can tell me what you think after you see the body.”

Will decided to ride with Jack, not trusting himself to drive. His brain felt feverish with anticipation. It was a longshot, but the differences between this puppet killer and the previous might speak volumes as to the true design of the master. Every day the case dragged on, the more the dread seemed to flourish within Will, dark and poisonous. He wanted to be done with it all.

“Who found the body this time?”

“After.” Jack clearly wasn’t going to say anything for fear of muddying Will’s waters. The rest of the ride took place in silence, which was fine by Will.

Lost in his thoughts, for Will the ride seemed to take moments. Once he found himself walking into the crime scene, though, time seemed to slow down to such an extent it was bordering on the hallucinatory. He held his breath while Jack cleared the room of busy forensic worker bees, who seemed to pass him in slow motion as they exited.

Then it was quieter, the muffled sounds of police activity still audible, but comfortably distant. It all slipped away as he began walking through the condo, mistakenly heading for the kitchen expecting to find the body waiting for him there. Instead, this time, she was in the bathtub. Will allowed the sights and smells to wash over him before summoning the pendulum.

“She doesn’t know me, but I know her,” he said, opening his eyes. Aspects of the crime scene flickered and faded, leaving him with only the handiwork of the puppet and their unfortunate victim. “I know what she is, while others cannot see.”

As he unwound time in his mind, retreating to the bedroom where it all began, Will was filled with a certainty that this puppet was a man. He could feel the other’s excitement—more important was the shame over this state of arousal—as he watched the woman go through her evening rituals. In his mind, there was music playing in the living room, drifting into the bedroom, and she was singing along, oblivious to what awaited her.

“She fills me with poison. Just by breathing the same air, I’m endangered.” The killer in his imagination ached with the hardness of arousal, while his mind burned with indignation. This wasn’t his doing; she was to blame.

Unlike their previous scene, none of the knick knacks or photos in the bedroom had been turned around, and the closet was empty of any sense of fear. Their new puppet road high on a sense of righteousness, would have been happy for the world to see, to know what it was he did. He would have struck her down ages ago, would have acted out a thousand perverse and punishing desires, but instead he waited. He had a mission, after all. No… this was more like a sacred ritual than a mission.

And then, as if somewhere the last grains of sand had run their course in an hourglass, it began. Will felt alive with energy as his version of the killer burst from the closet as the woman approached, the door opening with enough force to break her nose as it struck her in the face. She fell to the floor with a satisfying thud, blood flowing from her broken nose, trying to understand what was happening. Before she ever had a chance, he was atop her.

“I can feel her beneath me, and the contact burns,” Will continued, breathing heavily. In his mind, the killer was unable to resist rubbing his maddening hardness against the struggling body beneath him, the thrill of pleasure it sent coursing through his body causing fresh disgust to wash over him. He wanted to scream in her face, smash it in, but instead he grabbed a piece of clothing from the bedroom floor and shoved it into her mouth, knowing he mustn’t allow her to begin screaming. “I have to save myself, to save everyone.”

He grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom, leaving smear marks of blood behind on the floor as if marking trees to find his way home through strange and dangerous woods.

“She fights me because she knows what I am,” he said to himself as the scene continued to unfold in his mind. She kicked and struggled to no avail until she found herself on her back in the bathtub, dazed and confused in the aftermath of her head cracking against the porcelain of the tub as she landed.

“You cannot corrupt me,” Will wanted to scream, pulling the implement from his boot. “I was called and I answer, and you will be stopped. All of you.” He thrilled, every inch of him electric and alive, as he plunged the handmade stake into her chest. The killer in his mind watched as she coughed and sputtered around the cloth in her mouth, managing to pull it free before attempting to remove the offending object from her chest, but it was all for naught. Her eyes were wide and confused as the light left them, while the killer felt purified and complete for the first time in his life. “This is my design.”

The killer’s sense of power, euphoria, and arousal hung suspended in Will’s psyche, warring with his sense of disgust over what had taken place. He stared down at the victim, thinking momentarily of his students. It seemed he had found for them yet another example of the male penetrative control issue. Unfortunately, that had only been the beginning of the story. Another had been here, the one he needed to see most of all.

The pendulum swung once more through his mind, erasing the sensations of the puppet, paving way for the master. Time passed, in the real world as well as the world of his imagination, and then another appeared. This feeling was different, almost lighthearted. The heavy lifting had been done, his puppet had served him very well, and now it was time for him to play.

“Smile for them,” Will whispered, as he cut her face. “You’re so pretty when you smile.”

The sounds of an argument outside cut through his recreation, leaving him momentarily disoriented. In an attempt to find his footing once more, Will began a closer examination of the body. No apron or silly breakfast cereal this time. With gloved fingers, he examined the edges of the abdominal wound, taking note of the cleaner cuts.

“Hannibal would approve,” he found himself murmuring, then shuddered, momentarily confused as he found himself no longer looking through his own eyes, or even those of the killer, but rather through the all seeing eyes of Hannibal. In that sliver of a moment the girl appeared to him not as a person, or a victim, not as something desired or feared or objectified or destroyed. No, she was simply… distasteful. It was as if he was strolling through The Louvre and came across a child’s preschool drawing, framed and displayed alongside the works of masters, as if it belonged there.

Will jerked back to a standing position, tried to shake off the strange and terrifying turn his mind had taken. As if attempting to expel something possessing him, he staggered back from the tub until he found Hannibal kneeling in the space he had just occupied.

“Nonetheless, this one was a bit better,” the Hannibal of his mind said, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. He turned his head to watch Will with calm, calculating eyes. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“This new companion of his seems full of fire and brimstone,” Hannibal remarked, the rich complexity of his voice amplified by the acoustics of the bathroom. It made Will’s heart race and his hair stand on end. He licked his lips as he watched Hannibal reach down to wiggle the stake where it remained lodged in the woman’s chest, smiling coyly to himself. “How very dull.”

“What are you doing here?” Will whispered, breaking out in a cold sweat.

Hannibal ignored him, returning his attention to the body. “This one has been dead for several days.”

“Yes.”

“It is no accident she was found when she was,” Hannibal remarked. “He needs the attention now.”

“Don’t touch that,” Will cried, beginning to shake as the adrenaline pumped through his body. Hannibal ignored his request and continued to explore the gaping hole in the woman’s abdomen before pulling out a small, blood soaked feather. He held it aloft, showing it to Will as if presenting him with a bouquet of flowers. Hannibal rose and crossed the space between them to place the feather against Will’s gloved palm, then closed Will’s fingers around it.

He was feeling himself losing touch with what was real and what was not, began to question if there was really a crime scene at all. “You shouldn’t be here,” Will said, eyes wide with fear.

“Where else should I be?” Hannibal frowned at him before beginning to slowly lick his fingers clean of the blood. “I’m part of you now, Will.”

“Stop that,” Will begged, this time battling with his own shame and arousal at the sight of his lover’s fingers disappearing into his eager mouth. Hannibal paused, but then held his thumb aloft, the smear of blood standing out starkly against the pale canvas of Hannibal’s skin. Will moaned softly to himself (out of fear? or desire?) as Hannibal ran his thumb across the swell of Will’s lower lip before pushing it gently into Will’s mouth. Instinctively, he swirled his tongue over the pad of Hannibal’s thumb and sucked, copper and salt and Hannibal dancing across his palate. He was breathless when Hannibal finally pulled away, leaving behind a shaking, conflicted, sickened Will Graham.

There was an impish sparkle in Hannibal’s eyes. “Shall we see what he left you?”

“Why are you doing this,” Will asked, not sure any longer who he was talking to. He followed Hannibal to the bedroom, hands fisted in his hair as if to hold in his thoughts, terrified by what might await him. Hannibal was simply standing beside the bed, looking bored.

“I only wish to help you, Will,” Hannibal answered, unphased by his lover’s panic. Will walked over to the bed on shaking legs, pausing for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. He closed his eyes and groaned in frustration, wanting, needing to find himself alone when he opened them again.

“Will.” He didn’t open his eyes, but could hear the tiny noise of displeasure Hannibal made over his behavior. “He’s begun to perform for you, Will, and it concerns me.” He could feel the warmth of Hannibal’s breath on his cheek, could smell the comforting, familiar scents that he associated with his lover. Strong, elegant hands brushed his damp hair back from his forehead, as they had done countless times in real life.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had always known that the work he did with Jack would eventually push him past the breaking point. He simply hadn’t imagined that this would be what going mad was like. “I can’t have you here right now,” Will whispered, tears beginning to slide down his cheeks.

“Very well.” Hannibal placed a tender, lingering kiss against Will’s brow. “Take care with this one.”

The warmth of another person’s proximity faded and his imagination provided the distant sounds of expensive shoes against parquet flooring as the hallucination left him. When he dared to open his eyes again he found himself very much alone. He was standing in the bedroom, holding the victim’s pillow aloft, revealing the decaying kidney and pancreas that had been left there for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He had expected Jack to be the one who lost patience and barged in, but instead he sent Beverly in to check on things. Will snuck a glance at himself in the bathroom mirror, dismayed by what he saw, what Beverly was sure to see.

“Hey,” she called, joining him. “Do you need more time?”

“How,” he had to stop, concentrate on controlling his voice. “How long have I been in here?”

He could feel her concern crowding around him, like pressure rising in the room. “About an hour,” she said. “Will…”

“I’m fine,” he lied, ducking his head and forcing a false smile in place for her benefit. “How was she found? Jack wouldn’t tell me until I saw the body.”

While Beverly clearly didn’t believe he was anything resembling fine, she seemed to understand he needed her to play along. “The police responded to a domestic disturbance call. The lock was tampered with so that the door would swing open if someone knocked with enough force, so they came on in and found her in here.”

Will stared at the cell phone, presumably the victim’s, where it rested on the edge of the tub. “She’s been dead for at least two days.”

“Sure looks that way,” Beverly agreed. “We’re already pulling her LUDs and the recording of the 911 call.” She was watching him nervously. “Was it really bad?” she asked quietly.

Will sighed and shook his head in the negative, pressing his mouth into a thin line. “Just different. He knows I’m involved. He’s trying to impress me.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just can.” He sounded so small and lost in that moment that Beverly decided to throw caution to the wind and just give him a hug. The physical contact was at first overwhelming, but then welcome. He gave a halfhearted squeeze in return and then surprised them both by laughing. “Sorry, I just imagined Jack choosing that moment to storm in.”

“Well, he’s chomping at the bit out there, so…”

Will nodded and gestured to the corpse. “I’ll go talk to Jack. Oh, there are feathers inside this time, and the organs are under her pillow.”

“Sweet dreams,” Beverly muttered to herself as she pulled on fresh gloves.

“Can you let me know as soon as you find out more from the LUDs?” he asked. “There’s something important there.”

“You got it.”

Will took a deep breath and prepared himself for the onslaught that would be Jack. As hard as that would be, seeing Hannibal would be harder.

~~~~~~~~~~~

This time when he opened his door to a distressed Will Graham, Hannibal derived no bittersweet pleasure from the sight. Something was clearly very wrong with his lover. He let pleasantries fall by the wayside, relaxed his ever present control so his concern would be plain to see, and reached out to cup Will’s face. “What’s happened?”

Will flinched away from his touch, ducking his head and taking a few steps back into the waiting room. A cold, uncomfortable sensation began roiling inside of Hannibal. He let his arm fall and stepped aside to allow plenty of room for Will to enter the office, olfactory senses overwhelmed with the stink of dried sweat and fear coming off of the man as he passed.

He watched as Will began pacing around the office like a wild thing, finally coming to rest behind Hannibal’s desk, as if he needed the object to remain between them in order to feel comfortable. He began fumbling in his pocket, finally pulling out his phone with shaking hands. “I need...” his voice cracked and he ground his teeth in frustration as he attempted to take control over himself.

Hannibal approached cautiously as Will unlocked his phone and began pulling something up. Finally satisfied, Will managed to meet Hannibal’s questioning eyes with his own. What Hannibal saw there only alarmed him further. Will leaned across the desk and passed him the phone, careful not to come into physical contact with the doctor as the exchange took place.

“I need you to look at these and tell me what you see,” Will said, taking great care with each word.

Hannibal paused before looking down at the phone in his hands, unsure what awaited him. He could tell Will was expecting to be lied to, though. As he flicked through the photos, his confusion only grew. It was clearly the work of Will’s serial killer, but that did little in the way of explaining the alarming behavior. If what he expected was lies, Hannibal would provide the truth; he made no effort to hide his sneer as he looked through the photos.

When he was done, Hannibal placed the phone on the desk, eyes locking in on Will’s. “I see the consequences of self righteous, ostentatious brutality coupled with the narcissistic strokes of an amateur artist who thinks himself a master.” His voice was cold, unforgiving, as he pushed the phone back toward Will. “His knowledge of your involvement in the investigation has given him the false impression that he’s worthy of your attentions. He wants to impress you now, which will make him more dangerous, but perhaps easier to catch.”

Will exhaled loudly, braced himself against the desk as some of the tension left his body. Hannibal understood that Will had been testing him, knew that if he had opted for soft words, or pretended that he felt anything other than boredom warring with distaste when viewing the photos, that he would have made a terrible mistake. What he didn’t understand was why.

Hannibal found it difficult to restrain himself, wanted to circle the desk and force an explanation out of his lover, to force comfort upon him. “I’m worried about you, Will.” It was true, to an alarming degree.

Will’s shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter, even as tears landed on the surface of Hannibal’s desk. “Me too.”

“Can you tell me?”

“You were there today,” he managed to say, mouth trembling when he finally raised his head to sneak a quick look at Hannibal. The confusion must have been evident, so he attempted to clarify. “In my reconstruction.

Hannibal’s lips parted slightly in surprise. This was very interesting indeed. Despite the havoc it was currently wreaking in Will, the realization that he had so thoroughly infiltrated his psyche elicited a momentary sense of elation in the doctor. “Whatever was I doing there?”

Will made a small noise of distress as he allowed himself to fall back into Hannibal’s chair, apparently no longer comfortable supporting his own weight. Hannibal suspected the last of Will’s reserves had been bled dry during the journey to his office. He looked physically exhausted. There were dark circles under his red rimmed, glassy eyes, which stood out starkly against the unhealthy pallor of his skin. The doctor carefully circled the desk, stopping once on the other side, but maintaining a respectful distance from his lover.

“Does encephalitis come back?”

“Are there symptoms you’ve been hiding?” Hannibal countered. He watched as Will scrubbed shaking hands over his face, wiping away the straggling tears.

“It was just too real,” Will continued quietly. “I could smell you and feel you…”

Hannibal found himself both curious and concerned. Will’s mind was ever observant. Somewhere within he may have already catalogued Hannibal’s inconsistencies and come to an uncomfortable conclusion. This new development could be his subconscious at work, attempting to find a way to show Will that which he did not wish to see. “Shall I apologize for the actions of my doppelgänger?”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Will cried, teeth gnashing and a look of self loathing in his eyes. “I’m…” He trailed off, frustrated at his inability to properly express the feelings overwhelming him. “I’ve… violated…”

Hannibal didn’t allow him to continue. He crossed the small distance between them to kneel before Will, took the man’s face in his hands and forced his head up so he could see him better. “You’ve done nothing of the sort.”

Will kept his eyes focused on Hannibal’s mouth. “It feels that way. Like I’ve tainted you, somehow.”

“I would think by now you’d understand I’m no innocent in need of protection.” Will’s eyelashes fluttered as he dared to look Hannibal in the eyes. “You travel to dark places, thinking the journey makes you dark. It makes you brave.”

“I was trying to see through the Puppet Master’s eyes and instead…” Will pressed his lips together, unable to finish. Hannibal suddenly understood why Will had taken the photos at the crime scene, why he had needed to know how they made Hannibal feel.

“And instead you saw through my eyes,” Hannibal finished for him. Will shook his head in agreement, relieved Hannibal had said what he could not. “What you saw troubled you.”

“And confused me,” Will said, swallowing. “I was the killer, I was myself, and then I was you. Apparently, an accurate you. She looked like trash in a museum,” he was talking too fast, sounded manic. When he continued, it was clear to Hannibal that Will was no longer feeling guilty, but was now seething. “Then you were just there, with me, poking your fingers everywhere they didn’t belong, making me taste what you tasted, fucking making me want to taste, walking me through the scene, and you shouldn’t have been there at all, Hannibal!”

Hannibal wanted to pry every detail from Will, but understood they were balanced precariously on the edge of something. All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t ready to let Will go, would in fact never let go without a fight. “Will…”

Suddenly, the anger dissipated as quickly as it had materialized. “What if I’m going insane, Hannibal?” He sounded small and lost.

Hannibal stood, pulled Will up out of the chair and propped him against the edge of the desk when it seemed the man’s legs might go out from under him. He pressed himself closer until they were almost nose to nose, pleased that Will allowed the physical contact and proximity.

“You’re not insane.” He brushed Will’s hair back from his forehead, unknowingly mimicking the actions of his doppelgänger by doing so. “What you are is beautiful.”

“I feel crazy.”

“You’re pure, Will,” Hannibal began. He took a risk and fully pulled back the veil he normally wore, allowing Will an unobstructed view, if only he would be brave enough to look. “A pure human being with a beautiful gift, unlike any other person I’ve encountered.”

The trembling began to ease in Will’s body as he listened to Hannibal, and finally he risked another look into Hannibal’s eyes. Whatever he saw there seemingly ensnared him, and he made no further attempts to look away.

“I’m afraid I lack your purity,” he confessed. “My observations are rooted in the soil of my formative experiences, many of which might be considered unpleasant. I feel no sense of violation over you assuming my point of view, only regret that doing so has caused you pain.”

Will grasped Hannibal’s forearms as if to further ground himself. “I think what was more upsetting was how good it felt,” he admitted. “Clean and distant and untouched. Do you ever feel afraid?”

“At the thought of losing you,” he admitted, hating how cheap the statement sounded, even if it was true. They were quiet for a moment, Hannibal attempting to project a sense of calm stability through the lifeline of eye contact Will was bravely maintaining.

“I think it safe to say this experiment we’re conducting together is unlike anything either of us has attempted before.” One corner of Will’s mouth momentarily quirked upward in a smile. “Have you ever allowed anyone in this far?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Nor have I. Perhaps what you experienced today was simply an unexpected side effect.” Will blinked at this, seemed confused for a moment before the idea began to take hold. “You’re under high levels of stress, haven’t been sleeping. You’re reconstructing a Folie à deux, and had in fact previously turned to me for assistance.”

Will touched the side of his head, smiling a crooked little smile. “And I carry you around with me.”

Hannibal took Will’s hand and placed it against his chest, holding him gently by the wrist so that Will’s fingers would remain splayed over the position corresponding to Hannibal’s heart. “As I do, you.”

Will sighed, finally letting go of the last vestiges of panic. "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

Hannibal surprised them both by laughing, delighted by Will’s choice of words. Carefully, so as to allow Will the opportunity to pull away if he so desired, Hannibal wrapped his arms around the man, pulling him into a tight embrace. Will seemed to melt against him, nestling as close as possible, tucking his face into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, his lips soft and breath warm against Hannibal’s skin.

  
They remained that way for quite some time, until their breathing was synchronized and Will’s heart no longer pounded wildly in his chest. There were many things Hannibal wished to know about what Will had experienced, but this was not the time for questions. Will was exhausted, wrung dry, and falling asleep in Hannibal’s arms. For now, he would take him home, put him to bed, keep Jack Crawford at bay, and ponder over what Will had meant when saying Hannibal had made him want to taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is all about comforting and reconnecting with our poor, stressed out Will, so fear not! I swear, they're on a rocky road to Together Forever. Happy 2014!


	10. A Piece of Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal makes sure Will feels better.

“ _In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart. And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you’ll never see again_.”―Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders 

For Will, the rest of the day was a blur. He knew Hannibal had taken him home, was pretty sure he fell asleep in the car on the way there. He could remember walking into the house and the way Abigail had come rushing out of the kitchen in concern, drying her hands on a dishtowel and looking so matronly that for some reason he had started blubbering again.

There had been a shower involved. If he tried, he could summon the sensation of Hannibal’s strong fingers massaging shampoo into his hair, could remember being scrubbed, rinsed, patted dry. Hannibal had actually gone so far as to carry him to the bed, where once deposited he fell into sleep as if falling off a cliff.

That had been long hours ago, and the sleep had been deep and still and healing. A glance at the clock on the way to the bathroom showed him it was 3:17 a.m. Hannibal was in the bed, but when he returned to the bedroom Will could sense he was no longer asleep. “Sorry, had to pee.”

The bedside lamp clicked loudly as it was turned on, and Will had to momentarily cover his eyes until they adjusted. When he could see again, he found Hannibal sitting upright in the bed, blankets pooled around his waist. Will thought of Hannibal’s pajamas, and how glad he was that he had managed to break the man of the habit of wearing them to bed.

Suddenly, returning to sleep was the farthest thing from Will’s mind. It was something in the way Hannibal was watching him hungrily, the way the low light and shadows played with the colors of his skin and eyes. Something about what Will had seen and felt earlier in the day. The secret doubts as to whether or not Hannibal loved him were missing, now, and although he was still terrified, the concept of a family was beginning to feel less alien to him.

Hannibal watched him as he crossed the room to stand beside the bed, his eyes unblinking as he cataloged every movement of Will’s. Sometimes, when he watched Hannibal watching him, Will could only think of large, predatory animals. It probably should have disturbed him, but for some reason he found it extraordinarily comforting.

Will remained standing at the side of the bed as he began to stroke himself. Hannibal threw back the covers and changed his position until he was lying diagonally across the bed. Will crawled up and over his body, kissing, licking, and sucking along the way until they were face to face.

They kept their eyes open while kissing, the intimacy ratcheting up Will’s arousal until he felt himself losing patience. He disentangled Hannibal’s hands from where they were running through his hair and kneading his ass, and placed them above Hannibal’s head, arms crossed at the wrists. He shifted until he was kneeling above Hannibal, began rubbing his hardened cock over Hannibal’s smooth, alpine cheekbones.

The doctor kept his arms where they had been placed, but opened his mouth and attempted to capture Will’s hardness. The empath smiled down at his lover as he ran the length of himself up and over Hannibal’s lips, dragged his shaft back and forth against the eager tongue that appeared, never quite allowing Hannibal to catch him. The fire building in Hannibal’s eyes called to Will, and so he cupped the doctor’s jaw and lifted his head slightly from the mattress, slowly pushing the head of his cock past Hannibal’s lips.

Will moaned softly as Hannibal’s tongue swirled up and around him, as that beautiful, downturned mouth welcomed him eagerly. He took hold of Hannibal’s wrists with one hand and himself with the other and plunged deeply into the warm wetness of Hannibal’s mouth. He felt powerful as he fucked Hannibal’s mouth, stroking his cheek and cupping his jaw, pulling out fully every so often to ensure his lover wouldn’t gag.

Although Will was the one thrusting with increasing urgency into Hannibal’s mouth, he felt as if he was the one being fucked. Hannibal was frighteningly good at projecting back what he was experiencing and garnishing it with what he intended to do with Will once the man had had his fill. Will groaned and gave a final thrust before withdrawing, letting out a little noise of surprise when Hannibal skillfully flipped him over onto his stomach.

Strong hands lifted his hips and spread his legs, and then the world seemed to suspend itself in an amber moment of pleasure as Hannibal’s clever tongue went to work. Will gasped and clutched handfuls of the sheets as Hannibal began rimming him, losing all sense of time as waves of pleasure washed over him. He pressed his face into the mattress, groaning louder as Hannibal began stroking his cock while continuing to tease Will with his tongue.

Will wasn’t sure when, but at some point Hannibal managed to retrieve the lube and was now working his fingers inside of Will with determination. He felt himself being repositioned and soon he was once again lost to sensory overload as Hannibal sucked his cock while fingering him. It seemed to last forever, always this side of coming, until he was thrusting himself back onto Hannibal’s fingers, keening softly into the sheets.

Finally, Hannibal stopped the onslaught and for a moment Will could think clearly. As if he had been waiting for this moment of clarity, Hannibal pressed himself across Will’s back, pulled his head to the side and kissed him sloppily, stroking his hands up and down Will’s sides before taking him by the hips. Slowly, maddeningly slowly, he pushed his way inside of Will, leaving the man beneath him panting and crying out softly in pleasure.

Will had learned early on that Hannibal preferred to take his time while fucking, dragging out the inevitable conclusion for as long as possible, and this was definitely one of those occasions. Whenever Will tried to regulate the pace, Hannibal reasserted control, smoothing strong hands down over Will’s back, pushing him deeper into the mattress, massaging his shoulders, stroking everywhere he could reach until Will fell into a universe comprised solely of carnal bliss.

It seemed to last for hours and days, slow, deep, calculated thrusts, and with each he felt as if Hannibal was showing him something. That there was a language only the two of them spoke, a world only they occupied, and although none was playing, Will could hear music. It took him a moment, but then he recognized it as Mozart, specifically Piano Concerto No. 21, Andante, and knew for a fact that if he asked Hannibal later the good doctor would confirm that he was in fact playing the piece using Will’s body in place of a piano.

Will shuddered and moaned, lost himself in the moment, the sensations. The world seemed to begin and end with Hannibal, and there was nothing to be afraid of any longer. The entire concept of fear seemed alien in that moment, as he twined his fingers through Hannibal’s and worked his hips, alternatingly pushing back onto Hannibal’s cock and rubbing his own hardness against the bed.

Will thought he might go mad from pleasure, found the entire concept rather appealing. Naturally, Hannibal picked that moment exactly to wrap a strong arm around Will and lift him up off of the bed, nestle him against his chest, and begin stroking his cock. Even if he had thought to be quiet, or had remembered there was any world outside of their bedroom, it would have been impossible for Will. He gasped and moaned loudly, reaching one arm around behind him to grab whatever of Hannibal he could hold on to, while grasping the arm around his chest with his other hand. Turned his head to the side and met Hannibal’s hungry mouth, kissing him best as he could in their current position.

Will was close to coming, but part of him wanted this to go on forever, for it to be the rest of their lives. He had no choice, though. Hannibal’s breath was hot on his skin as he throatily whispered, “Will.” And that was it. He lost himself to orgasm, crying out in delight as Hannibal continued to stroke and milk him, nuzzling Will’s neck.

He lost himself to Hannibal’s onslaught, and when he came back to a sense of awareness, he realized he was now on his back and Hannibal was pushing his way back inside. Will gazed up at him dreamily, marveled over how red Hannibal’s eyes looked in this lighting, how the shadows played off of the muscles in his body, then simply lost himself again in Hannibal’s eyes.

They were kissing again, and somehow Will found the strength to wrap his arms around his lover, to stroke his face. And then Hannibal came inside of him, only it felt to Will like he was being pulled into Hannibal, that he was the one coming, and for a split second it was as if he was looking down at himself through Hannibal’s eyes. It was thrilling.

They remained tangled together for some time, catching their breath, as Will settled back into his own body. He laughed as Hannibal began licking his stomach and chest clean before going to get a washcloth. He was grateful the doctor wasn’t going to insist on a shower, because Will could barely lift his head, let alone stand. He was in fact, drifting back into sleep and didn’t bother to open his eyes when he felt Hannibal begin cleaning him.

Strong arms lifted and repositioned him in the bed before pulling the covers up and over him, the warmth welcome after the absence of Hannibal’s body heat. Long, elegant fingers traced the contours of his face and feathered through his hair until Will managed to pry his eyes open once more. Hannibal was watching him with a possessive intensity that made Will’s heart lurch. Neither of them needed to use words in that moment; they would have fallen short and cheapened what was perfectly clear to each. Love, a thrilling, sometimes maddening, all encompassing love. Will smiled and fell into a deep, restorative sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't ruin anyone's day with the previous chapter. Thought we could all use a little calm before the storm for this one. Here is the [Mozart piece referenced](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=df-eLzao63I), in case you'd like to hear it. 
> 
> As always, I live for comments.


	11. An Obvious Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is rather rudely forced back into the reality of his investigation into The Puppet Master.

 

“ _There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact_.”—Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Boscombe Valley Mystery_

Abigail frowned when she saw who was on the other side of the door. “He’s still sleeping.”

Jack Crawford smiled his largest, falsest smile at her. “Then I need you to wake him up.” He didn’t wait for permission to enter the house, choosing to push his way past Abigail instead.

“Hannibal wants him to rest,” she said indignantly, but it was pointless. If she didn’t go up and get Will, she knew Jack would, and no one would be happy with that result. She slammed the door shut and pointed to the living room, wishing she could get away with knocking Crawford’s hat out of his hands. “Wait in there.”

Jack smiled again, bowed slightly in thanks, as if he wasn’t intruding, and made his way into the living room. She watched him for a moment as he walked over to the fireplace and began looking at photos and generally being nosy; her frown deepened. “Watch him,” she whispered to the pack of dogs.

Abigail took a slight detour into the kitchen to retrieve the various food items Hannibal had left for Will. She loved the man, but hadn’t been able to keep herself from laughing at him when he had handed her the assembly instructions, complete with an illustration of how everything should be placed on the tray. Her reaction had almost resulted in him staying home, but she managed to stifle her amusement for long enough to swear to follow his instructions.

Her pregnancy hadn’t felt particularly burdensome to her earlier on, but she was at the point now where things like climbing stairs made her wish they had an elevator in the house. She paused for a moment when she reached the top, glancing down to make sure Jack hadn’t decided to follow her up, then headed for Will and Hannibal’s bedroom.

Inside, Will was face down on the bed, only partially under the blankets, but with pillows piled up over his head to block out sound and light. For just a second, she saw him in her imagination as a little boy taking a nap and smiled to herself.

Abigail set the tray down and headed over to the windows, pulling the curtains back and flooding the room with light. There was a groan from beneath the pillows. “Sorry, Will, but you should probably wake up and eat something.”

She tried not to laugh when a blurry eyed Will managed to extract himself from the pillows and prop himself up on elbows. His hair was all over the place and she thought he looked rather adorable as he once again reminded her of a child. “What time is it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answered, turning to get the tray as Will began to flop over onto his back. She doubted he was awake enough to remember he was naked, and she really wasn’t in the mood to get flashed, so she busied herself with the the food until enough time had passed for him to cover back up. “Hannibal left some food for you and I’m not supposed to let you leave the bed until you’ve eaten it.”

Will seemed appropriately confused when the food was brought to him. Miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, a bowl of steamed rice, green tea, something Abigail couldn’t identify, and what looked to be an omelette of sorts.  “Hannibal said this is a traditional Japanese breakfast and to not make that face, you’ll like it. Please don’t tell him I didn’t bother telling you the names of each bit and why they’re really good for you.”

At this, Will laughed and shook his head, took up the chopsticks she offered, and began eating. Once he started, he had a hard time stopping, realizing that he was starving. “You know, it’s only because he’s right so often that he’s able to get away with being as crazy as he is,” Will pointed out around a mouthful of food.

“Tell me about it,” Abigail said as she plopped herself on the edge of the bed. “I’m terrified he’s going to decide he needs to be the one to deliver the baby.”

Will finished up the last drops of his soup, shaking his head as he did so. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him.”

Abigail watched him for a moment. “So this new case you’re working on is pretty crazy, huh?” His chewing began to slow down as he contemplated her question, clearly caught off guard. “You seemed really upset when you came home.”

Will nodded awkwardly as he pushed the last of his food around the plate. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” she interrupted. “Just take care of yourself. I don’t even want to think about what Hannibal would do if something happened to you.”

He smiled halfheartedly at her before ducking his head. “I know. It’s just hard sometimes when I’m working on something like this. I forget to eat, don’t sleep enough.”

Abigail frowned and ducked her own head, trying to force Will into making eye contact. “I’m not talking about that,” she said. “I’m talking about the fact that this nutjob is calling you now. Speaking of which, Jack Crawford is downstairs. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I wanted you to actually eat something.”

Her words certainly got his attention. Will was openly gawping at her, food and aversion to eye contact long forgotten. “What do you mean, calling me?”

“As in calling you,” she repeated, growing irritated. “You know, on a phone, the way people call each other?”

Will pushed the tray aside and leaned forward, grabbing Abigail by the shoulders, his eyes wide with fear, confusion, or both. “This isn’t cute. I’m serious.” He gave her a gentle shake as if to make his point. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Holy shit,” Abigail gasped, finally realizing that Will wasn’t attempting to keep her from worrying, but legitimately didn’t know what she was talking about. “Tattle Crime. There was a whole thing that went up today about how The Puppet Master is supposedly collaborating with you, and how he called you from the victim’s phone before killing her, and…”

Will pushed his way out of the bed, ignoring Abigail’s protests regarding his lack of clothing. He quickly pulled himself into a pair of pants and ran from the bedroom, clearly heading down to talk to Jack. By the time Abigail reached the top of the stairs, Will was already yelling.

“How the fuck does Freddie Lounds know about this before I do?”

Abigail sighed and rubbed her temples before heading back into the bedroom. Any minute now, Will would be running out with Jack, and it was probably a good idea he actually be dressed when it happened. She could still hear him ranting over the barking of the agitated dogs as she gathered up the rest of the clothes he’d need, as well as his shoes, and then made her way downstairs. She had a feeling it would be a while before she saw Will rested and smiling again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will hoped no one noticed the way his hand was shaking as he scrolled through the Recent Calls list on his phone. Everyone was staring expectantly, Jack clearly growing impatient. Will finally found the call in question, raised his eyes to Beverly, and after receiving a nod, called the number. Within moments, loud, annoyingly familiar pop music was blaring through the speaker’s of their victim’s phone where it rested on the table in front of them.

“The LUDs don’t lie,” she said, her face momentarily lighting up with triumph.

“Why do I know this song?” Will asked as he ended the call.

Triumph forgotten, Beverly was frowning down at the phone. “Because it’s the same ringtone on your phone. Or it was, anyway. Remember? It was the one Abigail put on there.”

Will felt the sinking feeling sink further as he took a tiny step back from the table. “He was in the bar with us,” he finally managed to say. “That was the only time the phone rang with that tone. I changed it the next morning.”

“So let me get this straight,” Jack interrupted, holding his hand out as if any minute he was going to have to keep Will from running out of the room. “You’re out. Our mastermind is in the same bar. His accomplice is killing Ms. Coffield. You get a call, he hears your ringtone…”

“His Puppet called me,” Will interrupted in return. “The Master gave him the number before he sent him after the girl. Coffield is killed, and the Puppet calls me afterward. Twice.”

“And meanwhile, the Master is in the bar with you guys, happy as a pig in shit that he gets to actually watch you receive the calls,” Price added.

“ _And_ to make sure you would know he was following you, changes our victim’s ringtone when he stops by to carve her up, matching it to the one you had on your phone,” Zeller finished. “This guy really wants your attention.”

“He’s certainly got it,” Will murmured.

“None of this explains how Freddie Lounds got hold of this information,” Jack pointed out.

As the group began bickering over whether Lounds was in contact with the killer or they had a leak on their hands, Will walked over to the partially covered corpse of Angela Coffield, and thought of his recreation of her death. Thought of the chance invitation and the impulse that had led to him going out with Alana and Beverly the evening she was killed. What had the person on the other end of the phone said?

“Well, this isn’t Lisa,” he said aloud to himself, the words feeling off in his mouth as he tried to recall if the man had any sort of accent.

“No, she’s in cold storage,” Jimmy replied as he walked by, not realizing Will was talking to himself. Something about the look Will gave him caused the man to stop in his tracks.

“Sorry, I think I have the wrong number,” Will finished, softly. Louder, he asked, “You have a Lisa here?”

Brian grabbed a report off of a stack and handed it to Will. “Lisa Yates. Our first killer and second victim.”

Will scrubbed his free hand over his face, and for a moment felt as if he was standing outside of himself. Was it just that morning he had woken up feeling rested and sane and good again? Now he was so frustrated he wanted to scream loudly and long enough that the echo would never leave the room they were standing in. “When did you ID her?”

“Yesterday,” Brian said, sharing a look with Jimmy. “Check your phone, we left a message when we couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“Hannibal made me sleep,” Will muttered, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

“Good, you’re not going to be able help me catch this guy if you’re off your game,” Jack said, slapping a hand down on Will’s shoulder. “Lisa Yates, formerly of the Clifton T. Perkins Hospital Center. Not much in the way of family to speak of, but we were able to track down her cousin, Rebecca Clark. Yates came to Baltimore to stay with her for a couple months after leaving the hospital, but began missing doses and before long was out on the streets. Clark says she talked to the police, but nothing ever came of it.”

Will shoved a trembling hand into his pocket to grasp the aspirin bottle. He had been right about the mental illness, then. “Play the recording of the domestic disturbance 911 call to Clark. He would have recorded Lisa Yates before having his new playmate kill her.”

The lighting in the room seemed brighter and harsher than usual to Will, as he stared at Angela Coffield’s prone body. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he held his breath as a Hannibal Lecter no one else could see or hear glided past him, circling around to the opposite side of the exam table. He smiled coyly as he folded his hands behind his back and hinged slightly at the waist in order to get a better look at what was on offer.

Will had to fight the urge to attempt to chase Hannibal out of the room. Instead, he thought back to his conversation with the real Hannibal and resigned himself to the fact that the recesses of his mind had simply latched onto a strange, new way of communicating with him. It was pointless to fight with, or attempt to chase away, what was essentially himself. Not if he wanted to stay out of a psychiatric ward, anyway.

His companion seemed completely at home as he examined the corpse, a tender, almost nostalgic smile playing at his mouth. Elegant fingers adjusted the sheet covering her, then the stray bit of her hair where it fell across her forehead, apparently wanting to create just the right effect. It reminded Will of watching the care and precision Hannibal used when placing items on a plate, which in turn left him feeling uncomfortably comforted in the moment.

“Connections are very important to our new friend,” Hannibal said as he began to exit the room. “His compulsion to place links in the chain will be his undoing.”

“Our first victim, Carol Ann Christensen,” Will heard himself saying, causing the conversation around him to grind to a halt. “Has anyone in her life died recently?”

Brian closed the report he’d been reading from and walked back over to his pile, eventually pulling out the Christensen file. He began flipping through pages, scanning as he went. “Uh… well, okay, it looks like her father died early last year. Cancer.”

Will shook his head, growing impatient. “No, it would be an accident or a suicide.”

Zeller’s eyes lit with excitement and he held up a finger before delving back into the file. “Wait, I remember… yes! Her mother, Elizabeth Ann Christensen, committed suicide about six and a half months ago.”

Will felt the hairs on his body stand on end as the thrill of excitement coursed through him. “That’s it, that’s our connection.” He snatched the file from Zeller and began scanning and flipping through its contents.

Jimmy was exchanging glances with the rest of the room. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but closed it when Jack shook his head. He knew it was best to simply let Will work through his process without interruption.

“It was a legitimate suicide,” he finally said to no one in particular. “He would have enjoyed it more, manipulating her, leading her to the inevitable conclusion.” He finally looked up from the file, a determined and somewhat demented glint in his eyes. “This is his design. This is how we find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million for all the lovely comments last time around! Sorry this chapter is a little late, I will be back on the Saturday/Sunday posting schedule next week.


	12. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will ponders on the Puppet Master, while Hannibal grows frustrated by his recklessness.

“ _Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth_.”—Marcus Aurelius, _Meditations_  


Will rocked back and forth in his chair, letting his eyes unfocus and his mind wander as he stared up at the ceiling. Papers and photographs were spread across his desk haphazardly, layered in ways that would have made little sense to anyone else, but felt right to Will. He was humming to himself, not even aware he was doing it, fingers tapping out a rhythm against the arms of his chair.

He was starting to see the thread running through it all, and liked the feeling of power that came from the growing understanding. This was the part of the process he had seldom allowed himself to recognize; the level to which it could thrill him. The strange, secret joy that came when the connections crystallized, when his condition worked for him rather than against, when he balanced on that edge of understanding, as if poised at the edge of orgasm.

Hannibal knew. Will had never needed to tell him, and Hannibal had never felt the need to discuss the matter, but it was clear to Will that he had understood for quite some time. His knowing had caused Will to embrace his talent in ways he would never have been comfortable doing, earlier in his life.

“After all, where’s the fun in being good at something if no one knows about it?” he asked the empty room, because this was the question his killer had asked and answered.

The first time had probably been just to see if he could, Will had decided. He suspected his killer would have been in his late teens when it happened. An accident he could have prevented, a suicidal friend or family member. He got the sense The Puppet Master’s life had been strictly regimented as he grew up, so perhaps this was his first, truly rebellious act. Whatever it was, something in the killer’s life had made him realize the knock on effect of tiny moments. It had also revealed to him his ability to cause Big Things to happen, be it through inaction at a key moment, or through persuasion.

It was a talent that could have brought him much success in the business world, politics, or eventually landed him in prison in a variety of ways. Instead, he had kept his gift a secret. He had waited to see what would happen, never forgetting that first thrilling moment of power, hoping and dreaming and wanting to feel it again.

Will suspected that for awhile, part of the excitement was simply in getting away with it. He would see these deaths chalked up to suicide or accident and revel in his secret knowledge. Eventually, though, what once excited him would have left him frustrated. No one knew how good he was, what he had gotten away with, and so, really, had he actually done anything?

Had these feelings ed to the change? Needing to push himself further, to take a bit more risk. Jack had people digging through records, worker bees that would eventually bring him more papers and photos for his desk, and somewhere in there Will would see what no one else had seen. The moment of transformation, where his killer first successfully manipulated one person to kill another. Would it have been a mercy killing? That would have been the low hanging fruit.

Suddenly feeling as if he was being watched, Will looked to the doorway and jerked in surprise,  almost falling out of his chair in the process. “Which one are you?”

“Have I made another appearance in your recreations, then?” Hannibal asked.

Will smiled as he stood up to circle around to the front of his desk. “The real one, then.” Hannibal did not return the smile. Will had the sudden feeling that he was in trouble. “What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Hannibal said.

Will fumbled in his pockets, realized he’d left the phone behind after making off with all of Zeller’s files in order to have some time to study them in private and think. “Sorry, I’m pretty sure its in the B.A.U.”

To an untrained eye, Will was certain Hannibal would appear calm, but he knew otherwise. The man was actually quite angry; the eerie stillness as he leaned against the doorframe and stared was a dead giveaway. “Why are you mad at me?”

After what felt like an eternity, Hannibal finally began crossing the room to join him. Crossing wasn’t quite the word, it was more a predatory stalk, and Will’s heart began to race as the fight-or-flight response kicked in. Intellectually, he knew there was nothing to be frightened of, yet the adrenaline was pumping and a small voice within urged him to simply run. He was unable to prevent himself from flinching slightly as Hannibal reached out to stroke his cheek, his eyes contrasting uncomfortably with the tenderness of the gesture. With his other hand, Hannibal produced Will’s forgotten cell phone, obviously having retrieved it from the B.A.U. He held it aloft momentarily before sliding it into the front pocket of Will’s wrinkled suit jacket.

“A man who can be definitively linked to at least three homicides has taken to courting you, yet here you sit in your office after hours, alone, without your phone.” There was the slightest flare to his nostrils as he frowned, thumb rubbing back and forth against Will’s stubbled jaw. “Vulnerable.”

Something in Hannibal’s rich, accented voice, the almost sensual movement of his mouth as he formed the word— _vulnerable_ —made Will suddenly feel just that. He hadn’t given much thought to his own safety once the connections had begun forming in his mind, too caught up in the moment to stop and think about anything else. He had assumed he would be safe. His attention was desired, as it legitimized the killer’s actions, elevating him to the status of those serial killer’s the media lived to dote upon. The Puppet Master wanted to play, not to kill him. Right?

“You assume too much,” Hannibal said, answering the question that had not been asked. Will’s heart hammered fitfully within the confines of his ribcage as he looked away, uncomfortable with what he was seeing in Hannibal’s eyes.

Will watched as Hannibal brushed past him to begin examining what was strewn across the desk. He slid one hand into his pocket while the other reached out to touch photos and minutely adjust papers. It reminded Will of when they had first begun spending time together, back when they had simply been colleagues. Back then, it hadn’t been permissible for Hannibal to touch him, and so he busied his hands elsewhere in order to avoid spooking Will with an unwelcome gesture of intimacy. Despite the professional body language, when he spoke Hannibal’s voice was tender in a way usually reserved for the bedroom. “Please do not forget you are precious to me.”

Will thought again of the word vulnerable and knew he had inflicted precisely that feeling upon Hannibal. He was certain it wasn’t one the man was accustomed to. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. “It won’t happen again.”

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder, eyes flickering over Will’s face as he gauged the truth in the words. Apparently, he accepted what he saw and heard, and that dreaded stillness eased ever so slightly. Progress, but not quite forgiveness yet, then.

“It was stupid,” he continued, hugging himself to keep from reaching out to touch Hannibal. “He’s followed me at least once.” The reality of those words seemed to only just be sinking in for Will. He had a sudden, uncomfortable thought. “You and Abigail might be in danger.”

“It _had_ occurred to me after reading about you on _Tattle Crime_ ,” Hannibal answered coolly. Will cringed and was glad he couldn’t see Hannibal’s face, remembering his own anger over being out of the loop earlier in the morning. He could have given Hannibal a heads up, at least. He was feeling more and more like an asshole.

“Jack and I have spoken,” Hannibal continued as he lifted a photo from Will’s desk in order to examine it closer. “He was kind enough to update me on recent developments. Someone will be watching the house. I’ve informed Abigail that for the time being she is my new receptionist.”

Will let out a long, ragged breath, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, not at all surprised to find Hannibal was already several steps ahead of him. “So, how long were you standing there?”

“I suspect there is more at play here than simple lack of recognition,” Hannibal said, referring to the question Will had asked earlier to what he thought to be an empty room. “Your new suitor has grown impatient. I wonder at the source of his urgency.”

“Urgency,” Will murmured, as if hearing the word for the first time.

Again, the tension ratcheted in the room as Hannibal placed the photo back on the desk where he had found it, clearly frustrated by Will’s lack of understanding. The level of care used to accomplish this task showed Will how very much Hannibal wanted to slam it down against the surface. Definitely still angry. Will almost wished Hannibal would rage through the office, burning through his displeasure with physical action, but that simply wasn’t his way. It would have been easier on Will than the controlled stillness.

“An island unto himself,” Hannibal remarked, carefully enunciating his words. “Self sustaining, patient, talented. Then this,” he plucked up a photo of Carol Ann Christensen, held it so Will could see, “sloppy, fumbling foray into the spotlight.”

Will swallowed as the shadows in the room seemed to grow longer, deeper, darker. He walked over to the desk, shuffled around until he found what he wanted, then handed it to Hannibal. “Maybe his hand was forced. He killed her mother.”

“He persuaded her mother,” Hannibal clarified, scanning the report regarding Elizabeth Ann Christensen’s suicide. “Masterfully.”

“I’d say he was pretty masterful with Lisa Yates,” Will snapped.

Hannibal arched his brow coyly. “Do you think so?”

Will found himself clenching his fists by his sides, aware Hannibal was essentially poking him with a stick to get a reaction. Knowing what was happening didn’t make it any easier to not react, though. “He convinced someone without any history of violence, who by all accounts was a sweet, albeit messed up girl, into bludgeoning someone to death.” His raised voice echoed through the lecture hall. “So, yes, I think so.”

“It’s very likely your victim’s mother was persuaded in more ways than one. To end the suffering of a loved one in pain could be considered a gift, as well as a burden.” Hannibal tilted his head slightly, and the way the light caught his eyes made them appear eerily red. “Tidy and intimate.”

Will began to feel it then. The urgency Hannibal had mentioned. He watched as Hannibal sucked at his lower lip before continuing. “Cultivating the potential within Ms. Yates would have taken time, as well.” He began methodically sliding photos off of Will’s desk and onto the floor, despite Will’s noise of protest, until Angela Coffield was revealed. “Patience.”

“We should have had months,” he heard himself saying, the anger dissipating quickly enough to leave him light headed. “Even if he had another puppet picked out, there should have been more time between the killings.”

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, while Will let the pendulum swing to clear his thoughts and all the emotions Hannibal had stirred up within him. When he looked at the photos on the floor this time, he saw them differently. It was akin to someone who had spent years learning to intricately hand carve wood suddenly deciding to switch to using a chainsaw.

“It’s like he was building towards something, but had to abandon his long game,” he finally said.

“Precisely what troubles me.”

The unravelling threads he was attempting to trace through the design before him were swept from the canvas of his imagination to be replaced with a memory. A bruised and battered Hannibal set adrift amidst a sea of F.B.I. personnel, his office transformed into a crime scene by Tobias Budge. There were scars on the doctor’s body from the encounter; he had traced them with his tongue on more than one occasion. Will imagined Hannibal having to walk into a similar scene this very evening, only perhaps one with a less victorious outcome. Or—and he thought this far worse—him having to find Hannibal, lifeless and mutilated, knowing it was his fault that someone so remarkable had been erased from existence out of sheer carelessness.

“I’m really, really sorry,” he said hoarsely. This time Hannibal wrapped an arm around Will’s shoulders and pulled him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope people are continuing to enjoy the adventure!


	13. Entropy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal bemoans the wounds of Fortune, for the gifts she made him she perversely takes away.

“ _No structure, even an artificial one, enjoys the process of entropy. It is the ultimate fate of everything, and everything resists it._ ”―Philip K. Dick, _Galactic Pot-Healer_

Jacob hated storytime. He knew it was necessary, but all the talk of fire and brimstone felt silly to him. It cheapened things in ways he did not like. It lacked the simplicity and reliability of structure that came from building upon the foundation of intrinsic truths. He’d come to accept the necessity, he always accepted when it came down to it, but he still hated it.

Once upon a time, things had felt orderly in his life. He missed that feeling, more and more. It had been such fun, the give and the take. You had to move slowly, you had to really get down and dirty inside their minds in order to find the best way to set things spiraling into a very special sort of controlled chaos. Now, it felt like the only tool left at his disposal was a hammer. It just wasn’t fun the way he thought it would be, and it certainly didn’t feel controlled.

He looked at the calendar, did some quick mental arithmetic, and sighed to himself. There wasn’t much time left, and as convincing as he could be, there were just some things you couldn’t talk a person into or out of doing. For better or worse, everything was in motion and there was simply no stopping the juggernaut.

He could only comfort himself by thinking that the moments currently troubling his peace of mind were on their way to becoming nothing but memories; a strange time in his life before the true path was returned to. He would look back and chuckle, the way people did when seeing photographs of themselves with a particularly bad haircut, or wearing clothes that were all the rage at the time, but were now laughably out of fashion.

Jacob smiled to himself as storytime thankfully came to an end. “Amen,” he said, knowing it was expected. As he watched the man Tattle Crime and the F.B.I. had labeled a “puppet” leave, he could only think again of how memories were made, and remind himself to be patient.

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“I know she won’t ever change, though,” Mrs. Dawson was saying, “you’re always telling me that, and what do I do? Let her make me feel like a child all over again!”

Even if he had still been in the business of killing, Hannibal’s hands would have been tied where a patient was concerned, even with one as boring as the woman sitting opposite him. This didn’t prevent the doctor from daydreaming during her session, though. While not as magnificent as Will’s, his own imagination was exemplary, so much so that he could actually smell the coppery tang of blood if he tried hard enough. It was as frustrating as it was soothing.

He wasn’t in a particularly good mood. This querulous hominid existence he had come to occupy was grinding him into dust. After the scolding Will had received for leaving himself vulnerable, he had agreed to break his rule regarding bringing his work home with him. As a result, the profiler had been spending his evenings barricaded within Hannibal’s once tidy study behind mountains of crime scenes photos, and what seemed to be an endless supply of papers. Will’s lack of confidence in being able to make his legendary leaps of logic using purely digital files meant Hannibal was left choking back his indignation at the effrontery of the chaos currently contaminating the once pristine environment of his study.

It should have been fun—and it had been, at first—being surrounded with the documentation of murder. All too soon, though, he found himself unable to escape the _weight_ of the photographs, would lose himself in the vibrancy of the colors, overwhelmed with longing. He wanted to reach into them, correct all that was wrong, make them beautiful, and clever. The sense of unfairness rankled. This so called Puppet Master was free to do as he pleased, while Hannibal’s talents went underutilized, bound as he was within the confines of the cage his stubborn heart had created for him.

He had always expected to retire at some point, be it due to his age or finally being caught, but Hannibal still felt young. Too young to be relegated to living off of the memories of times past, at any rate. What if Michelangelo had left his great works stillborn within marble, choosing a lover over his calling? The world would have been a darker place, for sure.

His palette was blood, and he worked with flesh instead of stone or marble, but the heart of a true artist beat within the chest of Hannibal Lecter, and it refused to leave him in peace. It was as if the very blood coursing through his body was singing to him, pounding out a particular, primal rhythm, demanding him to answer the call, to act.

During his lifetime, he had seldom felt as if he was truly a member of the same species as the humans he observed day in and day out. Now, it was as if his awareness of this difference had been honed to such an extent that he actually felt a physical manifestation of pain as he was regularly gutted by the razor sharpness of his knowledge.

Things had reached such a point that he actually found himself wishing— _wishing!_ —that he felt any remorse whatsoever for his actions. Endlessly, his patients paraded through his office, wallowing in their guilt, shame, and remorse over trivialities, while he had no such comfort or motivation where his actions were concerned.

Simply put, Hannibal had never felt a moment’s guilt over the lives he had taken, as they were undeserving of his sympathy or consideration. He found Will’s ability to hurt over the things he had seen, both real and imagined, charming, but the emotions he saw the man experience were more or less alien to him.

Hannibal had reached a point where he was having arguments with himself on an almost daily basis. It felt inevitable that Will would discover his secret, and when this happened, Hannibal would be put in a very difficult position. Was he capable of injuring Will in order to escape capture, if necessary? Despite his love for the man, he thought he would, but he still disliked when those scenarios played out in his mind. He would take no pleasure in hurting Will, and would do his best to damage nothing vital on the body he had grown to know so intimately.

The logical part of himself argued it was a waste of time to continue on with this confrontation looming on the horizon. It would be better for Will if Hannibal extracted himself, went back to doing what he had always done best. If given the choice, he was sure Will would prefer heartbreak over the knife. Really, it would be sparing him pain to leave before that moment unfolded between them. It would be difficult, but they’d each faced far worse in their lifetimes. Despite repeatedly arriving at the same conclusion, Hannibal continued to be unable to follow through on what was clearly the logical choice. When face to face with Will, every aspect of his being rebelled at the thought of walking away, and so he remained trapped in his Sisyphean existence.

Hannibal extended the box of tissues to his patient, forcing a sympathetic smile onto his face as she blew her nose and thanked him.

“It all seems so clear when we’re here together,” Mrs. Dawson said with a sniffle, “but following through on what I know is right for me…”

“You’re capable of a great deal more than you give yourself credit for, Marie,” he said as they rose from their seats and headed for the door. “Perhaps you’ll even surprise yourself.”

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter, you don’t know what a Godsend you are.”

After seeing out his patient, Hannibal retreated to the confines of his office, telling Abigail he should be left to his paperwork until his next appointment. With her occupying the short lived home of his previous receptionist, and Will monopolizing his study, it was as if he had nowhere to escape.

He toyed with the idea of visiting Bedelia Du Maurier after his last appointment of the day, but increasingly he found their exchanges to be tedious, hardly worth the effort considering there would be no eventual pay off. The game of pretending he once found so amusing now left him wanting to sneer with contempt.

He returned to his desk, running his hands across the smooth, polished surface before retrieving a small key from his pocket. The desk drawer slid open with hardly a sound as he retrieved an everyday object, one he should have been comfortable leaving in the open, yet felt the need to hide. The Rolodex would have meant little to most, but his Will was a clever boy. Hannibal suspected a quick flip through the cards within would complete some circuit in Will’s brain, leaving him unable to hide from the truth any longer.

Hannibal sighed to himself as he slowly flipped through the contents of the Rolodex, lingering here and there as he recalled particular offenses, and imagined in great detail the meals he would craft in response. This little indulgence was slowly becoming a ritual with him. Whenever he managed to carve out a few peaceful, private moments within his day, inevitably the Rolodex would make an appearance.

The rotary cards made a satisfying noise as they were turned, a calming yet tempting susurration. He plucked one free and held it aloft, thinking Mr. Andelman would have much more in the way of substance to offer the world if transformed into a Wellington. It was heartbreaking, returning the card to its proper place within the Rolodex.

Round and round and round, until he thought he would go mad. Something had to change, something outside of the short lived amusement of Abigail’s pregnancy, or copulation with Will. The fact that he had carried on this way for as long as he had was a testament to his willpower and sheer fortitude, but all things in the world were subject to erosion. He wasn’t foolish enough to think himself the exception.

Impossibly, perversely, as he closed the lid of the Rolodex he received what he had wished for in the form of an unexpected phone call. He didn’t recognize the number that came up on the screen as his cell vibrated in an attempt to get his attention. He let it ring, waiting until almost the last possible moment to answer, unsure why he was so hesitant to accept the call.

A familiar voice made almost unrecognizable by stress afforded him no opportunity to inquire as to who was calling. “Hannibal?”

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Hannibal momentarily occupied himself by carefully placing the Rolodex back within the bottom drawer of his desk, taking time to secure the lock before replying. “Beverly, how can I be of assistance?”

Her words were almost obliterated by the sound of sirens. A strange coldness began to wash over him, distracting and fascinating, as the implications of the sounds he was hearing began to strike a chord within his brain. Despite the creeping numbness taking over, it still felt as if the very air around him had thickened, become unbreathable when he finally comprehended what Beverly was almost screaming into the phone. “Hannibal, can you hear me? Will’s been attacked!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me, I'm so sorry! *ducks* Since the first fic in this series is set in the future, it is safe and totally spoiler free to say Will absolutely won't die in this story, nor will he be disfigured or permanently handicapped. That being said, it's going to be the opposite of kittens and rainbows for a bit in their world. Main course of angst with a happy ending for dessert, I promise.
> 
> Meanwhile, if you're looking for the soundtrack of Hannibal's afternoon, it is undoubtedly [_Fortune plango vulnera_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Nn3PcESF7w).


	14. Quickly Ugly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly's day takes a turn for the worse. This is what happens when you hang out with Will Graham.

“ _How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just―change. With nothing causing it_.”―Philip K. Dick, _A Scanner Darkly_

 

Beverly looked down at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. They were rock steady, which made no sense at all; she felt like she was shaking apart at the seams. A long, confused moment stretched out in her mind as the blood flowed between and over her fingers, a bright, wet, red that signaled danger. Some other person with control over her body was removing her hoodie, now, and placing it over the wound before re-applying pressure, while she stared at Will’s pale face and tried to process what had just happened.

She had been complaining to the boys about too much time stuck inside, so when Will had stopped by to bounce some ideas off of her, she had been both flattered and anxious to tag along on his adventure. The sun was shining, she’d cranked the radio in the car, and had to laugh when she caught Will trying not to react as she sang along with the bad pop music.

“I’m trying to talk Alana into doing karaoke with me,” Beverly shouted over the radio. She averted her eyes from the road long enough to throw Will a meaningful look.

“Not a chance in hell,” he answered. She laughed as he lowered the volume on the radio and settled back in his seat.

“How’s Abigail doing?”

“Uh, good. I think.”

“Seriously?”

Will shifted in his seat. “I haven’t exactly been,” the pause stretched out as he searched for an acceptable word, “present. I’ve mostly been locked up in Hannibal’s study, going over the case files.”

“Understandable,” she said, not wanting him to feel bad. “How much longer now?” This seemed to confuse Will, who began looking around for landmarks. “No, the baby, how much longer until Abigail has the baby?”

“Oh. Right.”

As the silence stretched out, Beverly reached over and punched Will on the shoulder. “You don’t know!” She ignored his noise of protest, and gave him another punch for good measure. “Well, based on what Alana’s been able to tell me, outside of patient confidentiality, of course, she’s in her third trimester now.”

“That sounds right.”

“You’re the worst,” Beverly declared, shaking her head as she signaled a lane change. “Well, now you’ve left me no choice. I’m throwing her a baby shower. It’ll be at your house, by the way, and you’ll attend. At gunpoint, if necessary.”

“Hannibal…”

“Is a considerate, sensitive man,” Beverly interrupted. “I bet he knows to the day how far along she is. In fact, put his number in my cell now,” she took a hand off the wheel long enough to dig out her phone, shoving it in Will’s direction before refocusing her attentions. “He’s going to have to cater, anyway, since I’m poor. I bet he even knows how to make all sorts of adorable little French cakes.”

Will laughed at this and did as he was told, handing the phone back when he was done. “Is this one of those things with the weird games?”

The level of terror in his voice made her take pity on him. “I’ll skip the stupid games, don’t worry. Presents, cake, and support only.”

“Presents,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“Well, you better believe it, buddy,” Beverly teased in a sing-song voice.

“I went from no sex, to sex with a guy,” Will said testily. “I didn’t really expect a baby to come out of that equation.” There was a long moment of awkward silence. “I’m not exactly known for my… stability. I’m pretty sure I’d be towards the bottom of anyone’s list of ideal candidates for child supervision.”

Beverly took a deep breath and reminded herself that Will was scared to death of the baby’s arrival. “Hey, it’ll be fine, you’ll see. It’s not like you’re doing this on your own.”

“Don’t let him fool you, Hannibal is crazy, too,” Will grumbled. “He’s just better at hiding it.”

She laughed and gave Will’s shoulder a pat of comfort instead of a punch. “You have to be crazy to be a psychiatrist, or you can’t do your job,” she pointed out. “Seriously, though, it’s going to be okay.” After several more awkward moments, she asked, “Hey, do you want to talk about something more pleasant, like hunting down murderers?”

“Yes, please,” Will replied, sighing with relief.

“Great. Why are we going to this homeless shelter?” she asked, honking at the cab in front of them halfway through her question.

Will shrugged one shoulder. “Angela Coffield volunteered here.”

“Right, and we followed up on that.”

“I know. But I kept coming back to it for some reason.” Out of the corner of her eye, Beverly could see him fidgeting with the papers he’d carted along. “It’s like being in a pitch dark room, and feeling around for the lightswitch. Most of the time, its going to be on the wall, so you start there. But, sometimes... there’s no overhead lighting. Just a lamp, in the middle of the room.”

Beverly laughed. “I totally get that.”

“Yeah, well, I feel like I’ve stubbed my toe on something,” he continued, ducking his head, seemingly embarrassed.

“Like a fancy table with a really big lamp on top?”

“Maybe.” He rolled up the file papers and began smacking them against his knee in time with the pop music. “More likely, it’s the bottom of a really big staircase, and the lamp is somewhere on the second floor.”

Beverly pulled into the lot behind the Helping Hand Mission. “Looks like we’ve arrived at the staircase.”

They made their way inside, Beverly taking note of the “Serving Christ since 1885” written above the entryway. It was nicer inside than she had anticipated, which made her feel like an asshole for having expected something more dramatically desperate, like from one of her Law & Order episodes.

Beverly smiled at the people around her, feeling out of place in the sea of men. Will looked equally uncomfortable as he was forced into a hearty handshake by the Associate Director of Programs. “Kevin Jordan, a pleasure to meet you. We were so shocked to hear about Ms. Coffield. Terrible tragedy.”

He turned his attentions to Beverly, wrapping her extended hand in both of his, pumping up and down vigorously before releasing her. “How long did she volunteer here?” Beverly asked.

“About a year now. She was very well liked, as I told the officers when they were here.”

They were given a tour of the shelter, Jordan keeping up the running dialogue as they moved from room to room, occasionally exchanging greetings with staff and clients. She wasn’t sure exactly what Will was looking for, as he seemed content to remain quiet and allow the commentary to continue. After what felt like an eternity, he suddenly interrupted a heartwarming recovery anecdote to ask, “You only help men in this shelter?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Jordan answered, sending a confused look in Beverly’s direction. She just shrugged and smiled in response.

Will dug into his folder and pulled out two photographs. “Have you ever seen either of these woman? Maybe through volunteering, or coming and going with one of the homeless men?”

He took the photos and frowned. “Well, I’ve seen her photo in the papers,” he answered, showing them Carol Ann Christensen. “Terrible. The other officers, or do you prefer agents? They asked if she ever volunteered here.”

“And she hadn’t?”

“No, no,” he told Beverly. “As for her…” he was saying, but there was something in his expression that led Beverly to believe there was more to it.

“She looks familiar?”

“Hang on,” Jordan requested, shaking the photo as if the name would tumble out. “Laura? No, Lisa. I think her name is Lisa.”

Beverly felt her eyes widen, and she had to stop herself from grabbing Will’s arm as he took the photos back from Jordan. “Where was it you met Lisa?” she asked excitedly.

“We have community partnerships, as you know,” he began, gesturing for them to follow, “one of which is the Baltimore City Counseling Center.” He led them into his office, gesturing for Beverly to close the door behind them. “I’m almost certain that’s where I met Lisa. But what does she have to do with all of this?”

“Does anyone working here have a connection with the Counseling Center?” Will demanded, remaining standing despite the offer of a seat. “Volunteers, staff members?”

Jordan frowned. “If you’re suggesting one of my…”

“Three women are dead,” Will interrupted, his tone making Beverly cringe. She gave him a nudge and took over.

“Look, we’re not saying anyone from your organization was involved in any way,” she began, trying to smooth over any potentially ruffled feathers. “We will need a list of names, though. It’s entirely possible one of them saw or heard something that could lead us to our killer. You understand, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he finally answered. “Just a moment.”

Beverly waited for him to leave before whirling around to face Will. “Now that’s what I call a staircase! How did our guys miss this when they were here?”

Will chewed on his lower lip in irritation. “It’s a men’s shelter. Even though Lisa Yates looked like she’d been living on the streets, they didn’t bother to ask if anyone here knew her.” He looked like he wanted to punch something. “They assumed.”

“Shit.”

“We should have known about this ages ago,” he muttered angrily, fussing with his glasses in his irritation.

“Well, we can’t do anything about that now.” Beverly shot a glance through the open door, nodding her head to indicate Jordan was returning. It appeared he had some information for them, as well.

“I’m sorry if I seemed unhelpful earlier,” the director said as he handed over the list of names. “We spend a lot of time working with these men, and through God’s grace, a great many have been saved. Our staff and volunteers, well… I just can’t believe any of them could be mixed up in this.”

“Thank you,” Beverly said. “Really, I have the utmost respect for the work you do.”

He smiled and gave her a little nod of thanks. “There are only four people I can think of, and none of them are in at the moment, so I listed their addresses and phone numbers for you. One of them, Randall Jackson, will be here by four, if you’d like to stop back. I’ve also listed Olivia Murphy at the Counseling Center. I’m positive she knew Lisa.”

“This is really a big help, we’ll be in touch,” Beverly told him, and even Will managed a stiff ‘thank you’ before they left Jordan’s office, and made their way through the shelter. She tried not to skip in her excitement.

Once they were outside, Beverly stopped to pull out her phone, and opened Google Maps. Will shifted impatiently beside her as she typed in the address of the Counseling Center. “Okay, great, it looks like its right down the street. We can be there in less than five minutes, depending on traffic. It’s almost 3:30, do you want to try to talk to Murphy, then come back here to snag Jackson as he starts?”

As they spoke, a handful of homeless men were beginning to arrive, some of them finishing cigarettes before heading into the shelter in hopes of securing one of the 50 available beds up for grabs each evening. Beverly felt her elation dwindling. “Man, I hope it isn’t one of the volunteers. These guys already have enough to deal with. They don’t need a serial killer hanging around.”

Will seemed to ignore her concern, focused as he was on fumbling through his pockets. “I think my phone is in your car. Call Jack, then we can get moving.”

It was only a moment, but in that moment everything changed. Beverly pulled her phone back out, jumping to the Favorites list, smiling to herself (as she did every time) over the photo she had managed to snag of Jack to use for his icon. “Hey, did I ever show you this?”

She looked up, expecting to see Will, and was confused to find herself staring into the eyes of what seemed to be a very scared homeless man. He blinked rapidly, saying something she couldn’t make out.

Will was half turned, occupying most of the space between her and the stranger, as if he had sensed someone approaching and turned to see who it was. Beverly cried out in confusion as Will took several steps backwards, managing to trample her foot in the process. “Hey, watch it!”

Beverly cried out again, this time in surprise, when the little shove she gave him resulted in Will tumbling to the sidewalk, slamming down hard onto his knees, one hand coming out at the last minute to prevent him from face planting. The apologies she was already preparing became lodged in her throat, and for what felt like an eternity she was unable to move. Now that Will was on the ground, she could see the knife the stranger was holding.

“I think I’m hurt,” she heard Will say, and in the second she shifted her gaze back to her friend, the assailant took off running. Instinctively, she went to give chase, making it halfway down the block, almost getting hit by a car in the process, before she stopped in her tracks in response to the commotion now coming from where she had left Will.

“Yo, this guy’s fucked up!” someone was shouting, and Beverly cursed, turned around, ran back to Will.

She wasn’t even sure when she called 911, was confused when she heard them asking her questions through speaker phone as she rolled Will onto his back. She cried out in dismay over the amount of blood already pooled on the sidewalk. “Penetrating abdominal trauma,” she shouted, not entirely sure who she was telling.

Will Graham was pale, sweating, blinking rapidly. “Why aren’t you chasing him?”

“Shut up,” Beverly shouted, as she began applying pressure to the largest of the wounds, some part of her brain registering the tinny voice coming through the phone as they told her an ambulance had been dispatched.

Time refused to behave normally. One moment, everything was happening at once, but the next moment seemed to stretch on, and on forever. She felt like she wasn’t even in control of her body, but was relieved to realize she had removed her hoodie, and was using it to staunch the flow of blood. Will looked as confused as she was feeling, which was somehow comforting.

“Help is on the way, hang in there,” she heard herself saying. It made her want to scream, it was so hacky; this wasn’t some buddy cop movie, this was her friend. Will’s eyes had lost focus, and he seemed on the verge of passing out. “Hey! Will!”

“Hannibal,” he murmured, and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears, “is going to be mad,” he finally managed to say.

“That’s right,” she agreed, relieved to hear the sound of the ambulance in the distance. “He’s going to be really, really, mad. You have to stay awake for him, okay?”

Will tried to lift his head in order to look at himself, but didn’t succeed. Instead, he pressed one of his bloody hands against his face, pushing the glasses away as if they were preventing him from being able to see what was going on. Beverly tried to make eye contact, but Will was looking over her shoulder. “Hannibal, did I get stabbed?”

“They’re almost here, you’re going to be fine,” she promised. She could only make out about half of what Will was saying, but he seemed to be under the impression Hannibal was there, which was freaking her out. She almost kissed the paramedic who finally rushed in to move her aside so they could begin working.

Beverly remembered answering what felt like the same questions over, and over again, before finding herself in the ambulance with Will. She wiped her fingers clean on her shirt as best she could, and made the call to Jack, hanging up on him while he was in the middle of questioning her. She instructed her phone to ignore his return call, and scrolled quickly through her contact list, pulling up the number Will had just shared with her. That car ride felt like a lifetime ago.

“Hannibal?” she said, bracing herself as the ambulance took a sharp turn. “Hannibal, can you hear me? Will’s been attacked!” Jack was trying to call again, and it made Beverly want to throw the phone to the ground. “We’re on our way to Johns Hopkins,” she shouted in response to Hannibal’s question, then ended the call.

Beverly actively focused on getting her breathing under control, ignoring the phone vibrating in her hands, unable to look away from the deathly pale face of Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, Will, but you got stabbed. Again. It was the only way, though... :(
> 
> I changed the name of an actual homeless shelter near the hospital, as I figured the real one might not want to be featured in my homoerotic serial killer story. Also, I like the idea of Beverly being a closet Law & Order fan, but maybe that’s just me.


	15. Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal rushes to the hospital. Will rushes to Hannibal.

“ _Sometimes people don't want to hear the truth because they don't want their illusions destroyed_.”―Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Hannibal Lecter prided himself on his self control. This control was the very thing, in fact, that had allowed him to indulge in the great experiment that was loving Will Graham. Other men might have found their heart racing, their knees weak, having learned that their lover had been attacked. They might have cried out, or panicked. Hannibal paused.

Standing in his office, staring down at his cell phone, Hannibal allowed himself to savour the intensity, the purity, of his reaction. Anger was there, directed at Will as well as his assailant; hadn’t Hannibal warned him about this, after all? It was primarily focused elsewhere, though. If given the chance, he would have happily spent the next week slowly dissecting Will’s attacker, ensuring any pain his Will experienced was recreated tenfold for the person who had dared touch what Hannibal called his own.

The anger was quickly diluted by an emotional melange Hannibal hadn’t experienced since childhood. Anger had been present then, as well, but the fear, the longing, the disbelief, desperation, the sense of powerlessness… Quite a long time had passed, and the act that had caused that emotional forest fire within the then six-year old Hannibal Lecter had changed the landscape of his heart and mind forever. It had also changed the world for his victims, effectively signing their death warrants long before Hannibal had even set foot in the United States.

He had been a child, then, and still they had to break his arm in order to take what he loved from him. The arm in question was currently throbbing, the phantom pain stirring him from his reverie. He would have plenty of time to analyze and catalog his reactions, now he needed to see Will in order to understand what, exactly, ‘attacked’ meant. Hannibal slid his phone into his pocket, and stirred into action, the emotional inventory officially over.

“What’s wrong?” Abigail asked, standing as soon as she caught sight of Hannibal exiting his office. Perhaps his mask of calm wasn’t sitting quite right after all.

“I need you to cancel the rest of my appointments,” he said, pleased to find his voice contained none of what he was currently holding at bay within his chest. “I need to go to the hospital, Will’s been hurt.”

Abigail’s hands flew to cover her mouth, eyes growing wide with concern. “Oh my God, was it the Puppet Master? Is he okay? Take me with you!”

Hannibal clenched his jaw, held out a hand to still Abigail’s flurry of action. “I need you to cancel my appointments, then call Dr. Bloom. Tell her what’s happened, and have her bring you to Johns Hopkins.”

He stormed out of the office amidst Abigail’s words of protest.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal had little recollection of the drive to the hospital, but managed to arrive without incident, beating Jack Crawford there. It wasn’t difficult to find Beverly, although it was quite disconcerting to find her covered in Will’s drying blood. A strange sense of possessiveness and jealousy washed over him at the sight. He wanted every last drop of it for himself, wanted to rip the ruined clothing off of Beverly, curse her for her audacity. He wondered if the fear he saw in her eyes was for Will, or a pure animalistic response to seeing through Hannibal’s mask, her subconscious understanding she was in the presence of danger.

“I’m so sorry,” she babbled, her eyes darting around as if looking for help.

Not wanting to undo all of the years of hard work of passing for a normal human, Hannibal refrained from attacking her for her blood soaked clothing, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder instead. “Beverly, what happened? Are you hurt as well?”

He felt the tension leave her body at his words and gesture, and watched the fear subside from her eyes. “No, I’m fine, it’s…” she trailed off, ducking her head as if ashamed. “It’s all Will’s.”

Hannibal ground his teeth and surveyed the emergency room waiting area, hoping to spot medical staff, not at all surprised to find Jack Crawford storming their way instead. “What happened, Agent Katz?” he barked.

Beverly recounted what had transpired earlier in the day, Hannibal and Jack’s expressions darkening as she did so. Having heard enough to know his lover had been stabbed, Hannibal stalked off in search of someone with actual information as to Will’s condition, leaving Jack to interrogate Beverly regarding the attacker.

After what felt like an eternity, he was finally able to get some concrete information, only to learn Will was sent for an immediate laparotomy due to uncontrolled bleeding. His first instinct was to force his way into surgery in order to observe, but knew that would do little in the way of actually helping Will’s chances of survival. He would have to wait, all the while mentally running through the long list of possible complications Will could be facing.

Internally, he raged. Will was his, through and through. The idea of another penetrating him with a knife—likely a dirty one at that—wastefully spilling his blood was bad enough, but he was equally jealous of the surgical team currently exploring Will in ways he could not. He supposed it wasn’t precisely a normal reaction, but then again, he wasn’t precisely normal. He should be the one in the operating room. After all, who would possibly take more care while exploring Will’s abdomen, hunting out evasive perforations or punctures? Again, the intimacy rankled.

If everything went well, it would be some time before he would be able to see Will. The need to act was warring with the need to be on hand in case there was any news. While he could make some feeble excuse and leave to hunt down Will’s attacker, if the surgery took a turn for the worse, he may miss his last chance to see the man alive. His arm throbbed angrily, accusingly. This was not the time for self indulgence. He could best serve Will by remaining in the hospital, as vexing as it was.

That left him with one true option, as far as distracting himself went, which was observing Jack and Beverly. Neither of them were comfortable looking his way for more than a fleeting moment, which was unsurprising. They clearly felt guilty over what had happened, as well they should, but he found the direction Jack’s questions were heading to be a bit off track.

Will had promised to take greater care, and Hannibal believed he had done so. He was no longer angry with Will after hearing Beverly’s account of their adventure. If he had suspected the scene of the attack to be risky, surely he would have brought along more backup than Beverly Katz. From what he had heard, this didn’t sound premeditated, despite Jack’s insistence otherwise.

Unable to listen any longer, Hannibal interrupted. “Beverly, do you believe the Puppet Master sent his creature after Will?”

Beverly ran her hands through her hair and made an exasperated noise. “Neither of us felt like we were in danger, or being watched, or anything!” She shook her head, confidence slowly returning. “And the guy looked as surprised as I felt.”

“Lisa Yates was mentally unstable,” Hannibal reminded them, his eyes narrowed and jaw tight. “Manipulating psychiatrically compromised individuals might be easier, but is conversely more unpredictable.”

“What are you suggesting?” Jack asked, his tone of voice indicating he was receptive to any and all input at this time.

“It’s entirely possible this man regularly sleeps at the shelter in question, observed Will, assumed he had been discovered, and reacted with impulsive violence.”

Beverly was nodding, while Jack frowned. “If the attack wasn’t premeditated, how do we think the Puppet Master will react?”

“It certainly forces his hand,” Hannibal confirmed. “With his puppet compromised, he may have to eliminate him. This leaves him little time to find a replacement.”

“Are you suggesting he might finally get a little more hands on?”

Hannibal shrugged. “Perhaps. Or, he may simply send his puppet on a suicide mission. The rules have changed, its hard to predict how he will react. Regardless, I would appreciate it if Will had protection while in the hospital.”

“Already in place,” Jack confirmed. He reached out to squeeze Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’d like to keep eyes on you and Ms. Hobbs, as well. If he can’t get to Will directly, he might try to hurt him through his family.”

Hannibal knew attempting to dissuade Jack from this course of action was futile, and doing so would only be seen as suspicious. He hoped to be targeted, as it would afford him an opportunity to mete out his brutal and exacting revenge. This would be more difficult with police escort, but not impossible.

“Thank you, Jack.” Hannibal’s nostrils flared slightly as his mind painted a lovely, calming scenario. It took very little effort to eviscerate a man, as he knew first hand. He wondered if Jack was one of those people compelled to attempt to put everything back in the right place once it had all spilled out onto his shoes, or one who would simply stare in shocked disbelief. Either way, Hannibal was certain the look in the man’s eyes upon realizing what had happened would be a worthwhile distraction as he waited for news of Will. “I’ve instructed Abigail to contact Alana Bloom and meet us here.”

“That makes my job easier,” Jack said with a nod, patting Hannibal’s shoulder once more. “We have a forensic artist on the way. Once we have something, I’d like you and Abigail to take a look and let me know if you’ve seen him hanging around.”

“Of course.”

Their conversation was cut short by the ringing of Jack’s phone, his expression darkening as he listened intently to the caller. “Secure the scene, damn it, I’m on my way.” Jack hung up and looked at Hannibal and Beverly in turn. “The Puppet Master has left us another body.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will shivered, wrapping his arms around himself to conserve what little warmth was left in his body, wishing he had remembered to wear a coat. He was lost, and beginning to panic. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember how he had arrived, and had no idea where he was, despite the sense of familiarity enveloping him.

The universe seemed to be comprised solely of trees, their majestic presence obstructing his view of the night sky, preventing him from seeing much of anything in any direction. Aside from more trees, of course. He needed to move, though, felt the compulsion growing with every microsecond he remained still, but was unable to determine which way he should go.

A sense of unfairness washed over him, followed by frustration, and anger. Hadn’t Hannibal told him to be careful? Clearly he hadn’t been careful enough. Had the Puppet Master drugged him, left him out here to die in the cold? Had he lost time again, despite the encephalitis being gone? It didn’t make any sense at all.

Unable to take it any more, Will took a risk. “Hello?” he shouted, wincing at the sound of creatures scurrying through the underbrush in response to his call. At least he wasn’t totally alone. “Can anyone hear me?” he tried again.

For a long moment, there was eery silence, but then, faintly, Will heard something. He held his breath, cursed his heart for hammering so loudly, but eventually identified the sound as music. A harpsichord, to be precise. Will found himself laughing with relief, and began picking his way through the trees, using the music like a trail of breadcrumbs. For no reason he could fathom, he was certain that once he reached the source he would find Hannibal, and Hannibal meant safety.

During his journey, he took several wrong turns, had to stop and listen intently, then strike out again, growing colder by the moment. Will thought he might never find his way through the maze of trees, but then, with no warning whatsoever, his next step landed him in a clearing. Will stopped in his tracks at the edge of the trees, overtaken by surprise. Flat openness spread out in front of him, and in the distance where the field ended was a house with lights on. It looked to be more of a castle, really, and he laughed again, convinced Hannibal must be inside. It was just the sort of place he imagined the man might have grown up in.

Despite his relief over escaping the forest, Will found himself hesitant to leave the protection the trees offered. The openness of the field felt dangerous somehow, would leave him clearly exposed, an easy target to pick off from a distance. He couldn’t remain where he was, though, so Will finally psyched himself up, then took off at a brisk pace, his eyes focused on his destination.

Once he was in the middle of the clearing, Will was suddenly overcome with an awareness that he was being pursued, was certain of it once he heard shuffling, hissing noises from behind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to look over his shoulder, certain that the moment he did so, all would be lost. He kept his eyes on the house in the distance, and began to run as if his life depended on it. The faster he ran, the further away the house seemed to be, until suddenly the door was before him. Will threw himself at the entrance, praying that Hannibal had left it unlocked, crying in relief as it opened at his touch.

Using the last of his strength, Will slammed the door shut behind him, sliding heavy locks into place just in time to see and feel the door vibrate with the impact of something crashing against it from the other side. Will staggered, winding up on his ass looking up at the door, relieved to find it holding fast. He remained there for some time, desperate to catch his breath, feeling suddenly feverish from his long run and being exposed to the heat of a nearby fireplace, the cold long forgotten as he panted and left a puddle of sweat on the floor around him.

Finally, once he had his breathing under control, Will managed to stand on his shaky legs, confused to find the front of his shirt wet with blood, as well as sweat. “Hannibal?” he called, wincing at the way his voice echoed through the building. The only response was silence, and Will realized the music had stopped. “Hannibal, I think I’m hurt!”

There was a loud, unidentifiable sound from somewhere within the house, one that shook through Will’s exhausted body, and left him scared to call out again. “What the fuck is going on?” he whispered. Had he finally gone completely batshit crazy? None of what was happening made any sense whatsoever.

Heart heavy with trepidation, Will pressed a hand to the source of the blood, applied pressure as best he could, and struck off in search of the kitchen. It was the most logical place to look for the doctor. Each step made him feel more exhausted, though, and Will had to resist the temptation to simply sit down and wait for Hannibal to find him.

It felt like he wound his way through the dark house for hours, trying doors, taking little breaks here and there on dusty, ornate furniture to catch his breath, never making any real progress. Several times he found himself unexpectedly returning to the entrance of the house, as if some force was trying to show him the way out again, and again.

The next time he inexplicably found himself in the entryway, he warmed himself by the fire. As he did so, he looked above the mantle and was surprised to find a painting hung there. He hadn’t noticed it before. His confusion grew as he realized he recognized the work. Hannibal had shown it to him what felt like a lifetime ago. It was _Diogenes_ , by Jean-Léon Gérôme, only it had been altered, the Greek philosopher’s visage being replaced by Will’s own. The dogs surrounding the man had also been altered to match Will’s pack, and the man could only gawp up at the painting and laugh over Hannibal’s sense of humor.

The laughter died in his chest as he realized there was a lamp placed on the mantle, one that matched that from the painting, seemingly placed there for his benefit. Will wasted little time in lighting it, almost burning himself in the process. The house seemed to come to life around him in response to his action, the music returning, a strange whooshing sound sending chills up his spine as candles lit themselves, a strange, fairy tale reaction.

From somewhere deep within the house, the loud creaking of an opening door could be heard, and suddenly there was a smell in the air, divine, calling forth a ravenous hunger in response. He could hear the hustle and bustle of a kitchen, and sighed in relief, taking up the lamp, and striking out after the smells and sounds.

With the light to aid him, doors once locked fast now opened at his touch, and soon he was in a long hallway, at the end of which he was certain he would find the kitchen. The air was heavy with the tantalizing odor of roasting meat, and his stomach growled angrily in response. The hallway seemed to stretch out like taffy, forever pushing his destination just out of reach, but he was finally able to make out a figure in the room ahead. Will was too frightened to call out again. Instead, he picked up the pace, using the walls to either side to steady himself, to keep upright as he did so.

It felt like he walked for hours, for days, but finally he was able to recognize the room as the kitchen from Hannibal’s old house, only it seemed disproportionately large. At the center of the room was the man he sought, hard at work, surrounded on all sides by meals in progress. Things sizzled in pans, simmered in pots, the ovens were lit, and it was as if ten invisible Hannibal’s were in the room with them, tending the meals in progress.

But there was only one person he wanted, needed, to see, and he continued wielding his cleaver, for all the world oblivious to Will’s plight. Relief flooded through Will once again, filling him with renewed strength. “Hannibal,” he cried, setting the lamp on the floor beside his feet. The figure grew still, head turning to the side as if listening intently. Will had always found the man to be striking, but in that moment his lover’s profile was without a doubt the most beautiful thing Will had ever seen.

“Whatever are you doing here, Will Graham?” Hannibal asked, returning to his work, keeping his back to Will.

“I got lost,” he answered, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. He wanted, no, needed, to see Hannibal. Once he did, everything would be okay, he knew it. But, for some unknown reason, he was being denied this privilege, and it was breaking Will’s heart. “Hannibal, I need your help.”

“It isn’t safe for you here, Will,” Hannibal answered, and Will watched the play of muscles in the man’s back as he carved something on the countertop in front of him. He’d always loved to watch the man cook, and this time was no exception, but he couldn’t understand why Hannibal wasn’t rushing to his aid.

“You’re here.”

“Precisely.” Will could no longer see properly through his tears, and felt himself flooded with shame at the sudden realization that he had left a trail of blood through Hannibal’s beautiful home. “You’ve avoided this for quite some time. It seems a shame to undo all that hard work.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will groaned, staggering into the room. He placed a hand against Hannibal’s back, then shuffled closer until he could embrace the man from behind, every fiber of his being crying out in relief and joy at the feeling of the man in his arms. He pressed his face against the back of Hannibal’s neck and breathed deeply, letting the familiar scent of his lover wash over him.

They remained this way for quite some time, until he felt Hannibal stirring in his embrace, finally turning to face Will. For a long moment, Will tried to understand how he had gotten his blood all over Hannibal’s face, because it was painted shockingly crimson, the wet redness standing out in stark beauty against his lover’s pale skin. A moment later, he realized he couldn’t possibly be the source of the blood he was seeing, and felt himself growing cold.

Their eyes locked, and Will’s heart stopped, for what he saw in those eyes was something he had only caught glimpses of in the past, the stranger that lived within the body of Hannibal Lecter, now fully, joyfully exposed. This creature was cold where Hannibal was hot, cruel, unflinching, entirely alien, while also painfully familiar. It was disconcerting to see love projected from those monstrously clever eyes, as the blood dripped from Hannibal’s chin, and he shared one of his rare, wide smiles, sharp little teeth exposed. It reminded Will of a tiger, for some reason.

“Hannibal, what have you done?” Will asked, unable to pull himself free from the embrace, unable to look away as Hannibal licked his teeth, the interior of his mouth as bloody as the exterior.

“What I’ve always done,” he answered calmly, tilting his head slightly to the side, as if confused by the question.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Will stammered, the words rushing from his mouth, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. All around him, the meals in progress were taking on uncomfortably familiar shapes. Will began to panic as he realized that beneath his feet, the floor was slick with blood. Hannibal was right, it wasn’t safe, and he suddenly knew without a doubt he absolutely must not see what was behind Hannibal on the cutting board, what it was he had been preparing. “I can’t, I can’t!”

His cries of protest were cut short with a kiss, his mouth flooding with the coppery taste of blood, and he thought he might vomit, even as he returned the kiss instinctively. It ended as abruptly as it began, the creature that was wearing the face and body of Hannibal Lecter staring at him in what could only be described as adoration. “Run away then, my faithful mongoose.”

And so he did, screaming himself into wakefulness in an unfamiliar, sterile environment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt really bad about all the recent cliffhangers, so I'm posting this chapter ahead of schedule. Um... I do realize that this also sort of ends with a cliff, so I'm sorry! It is unavoidable. I'm a jerk that way.
> 
> A thousand thanks to everyone that took the time to leave feedback recently. It's been really great hearing how people are enjoying the story. I'm having a blast writing this, but it is always a relief to hear it connects with others, and I'm not just amusing my own damn self.
> 
> Lastly, in case you are curious, here is [the painting](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jean-L%C3%A9on_G%C3%A9r%C3%B4me_-_Diogenes_-_Walters_37131.jpg) mentioned in Will's dream landscape.
> 
> BTW, I'm sticking with Hannibal being six when Mischa died, although the age has also been listed as eight, and I think more like twelve in the movie _Hannibal Rising_. *shrug* I like six, better.


	16. Lost and Undreamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wakes up, as does Hannibal, in a way.

“ _That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed_.” ―Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman, Vol. 10: The Wake_

 

Abigail almost fell out of her chair when Will woke up screaming. Before she even had time to react, Hannibal was at the side of the bed, rushing in to prevent Will from ripping out the IV in his panicked state. 

“You’re safe,” Hannibal tried to use as little pressure as necessary to push the man back onto the bed, but Will was thrashing about, struggling to escape his grasp, babbling incoherently while doing so. It was hard to make out what he was saying, but Hannibal was certain he heard his own name along with, “what have you done?”

“Will, stop!”

It was probably the closest Hannibal had come to yelling in Will’s presence, and it had the desired effect. Will grew still in shock or fear, his eyes wide as he stared at Hannibal in confusion, his breathing ragged. The only indication that he was still in a state of total panic was the cacophony of the beeping machines he was thankfully still attached to.

“Is he okay?” Abigail asked, clearly freaked out by what was happening. 

Hannibal kept his hands firmly planted on Will’s shoulders, effectively pinning him to the bed, his voice pitched low and steady when he once again spoke. “Will, do you know who I am?” 

Will blinked several times before beginning in a voice best described as a croak. “Of course,” he slurred, seemingly frustrated by the question. “Hannibal, I know, I saw! I didn’t want to, I promise, I tried.” 

“Will,” he tried again before being interrupted. 

“I know who you are.” Beads of sweat stood out across Will’s brow, and his eyes were wide and glassy, his words sounding more like accusation than confirmation. Hannibal tried to ignore the effect they were having on him, the sinking feeling beginning in the pit of his stomach. “You can’t, though, you _can’t_. Promise me, okay?” 

Hannibal frowned and pushed the hair back from Will’s forehead, making soothing noises as he did so, surprised and dismayed by the way the man flinched at the contact, as if expecting violence. “Will, I want you to breath in and out for me, slowly,” he instructed, and Will struggled to match Hannibal’s even breathing, tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“Promise me, promise,” Will whispered fervently, reaching up to grab handfuls of Hannibal’s dress shirt. He looked so small and weak as he blinked back his tears, it stirred something uncomfortable within Hannibal’s chest, reminded him of another weak and beloved creature that had been ripped from his arms. Will tried to pull Hannibal closer, but was unable to, so the doctor obliged by leaning forward until Will’s mouth was pressed against his ear. “You can’t kill him,” he whispered hotly. “You can’t kill either of them, any of them, _anyone_ , Hannibal.” 

Hannibal sat up, a chill stirring the hairs on the back of his neck as he scowled down at Will Graham in shock. “I love you, damn it,” Will was saying, eyes rolling around momentarily in their sockets as he tried to get them to focus once more. “So you fucking... promise me.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hannibal answered cautiously. 

“Yes, you do. I know you want to, but we need him,” Will continued, sounding like a confused child. “We need to catch the Puppet Master. And… and bad guys have to go to jail, we’re the good guys, right? Just _promise_ me, please?” 

Abigail was watching them in confusion. “Should I get a nurse?”

“They’re already on their way,” Hannibal answered her, his eyes narrowed. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment, biting back the fury and alarm roiling within his chest, finally saying the words Will clearly needed to hear. “I promise, Will.” 

The tension melted from the injured man’s body, a relieved, sickly smile spreading across his face. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he struggled once again to get his breathing under control. “Thank you, thank you,” he repeated, over and over. 

Hannibal could hear the hospital staff were closer now, and rose from the bed, making certain they would have a clear path once they entered the room. 

“I was stuck somewhere,” Will babbled, eyes opening again, confusion still present, although he sounded a bit more like himself. “I was lost, and bleeding everywhere. Am I in a hospital?” 

“You got stabbed,” Abigail told him meekly, although the words were drowned out by the arrival of the medical personnelle. Hannibal placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as they went to work, the attending reading out Will’s vitals and reviewing the details of the case for the benefit of the two medical students in tow. 

“It would be best if you returned to the waiting room for a time,” Hannibal told her quietly. She seemed about to protest, so he added, “They’ll need to examine Will’s wound.” With a contrite nod, Abigail excused herself, looking over her shoulder as she left. 

“I’m Dr. Cooper. Do you remember me, Mr. Graham? We met a little while ago in recovery.” 

“No… Wait, yes,” Will answered, sounding relieved. “I had surgery?” 

“That’s right,” the doctor confirmed. “And it went very well. Don’t be alarmed if you’re a bit confused. You’re still feeling the effects of the blood loss and anesthesia, among other things.” 

Hannibal watched with darkened eyes as they ran through their battery of tests, wishing he could push them aside and take over. Cooper kept his patient at ease and distracted with incidental questions and small talk along the way, and Will seemed to grow calmer and more coherent with each passing moment. 

It irked Hannibal that he hadn’t had the opportunity to see Will’s injury prior to the exploratory surgery required to correct it. The incision appeared passable to his critical eye, but Hannibal disliked the look of it where once there had been smooth, undisturbed flesh. Will would be left with a new scar at the end of this ordeal. 

“I’m just going to give you a little more morphine to help with the pain,” Dr. Cooper said. “You should try to rest, because before you know it, we’re going to be back to bother you with another exam.” His cheery bedside manner grated on Hannibal’s nerves, even as it put Will at ease. “We were poking around inside you for awhile there, so don’t suffer in silence. If you need anything, you press this button.” 

“Right,” Will answered, sounding slightly drunk. “Got it. Buttons.” 

“Plus, I have it on authority that your partner here is a skilled physician. I’m sure he’ll be keeping an eye on you as well.” 

“Hannibal likes to watch me,” Will agreed, the silly, doped up smile on his face a stark contrast to the fear and panic he wore only moments before. 

“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Cooper announced as he left the room, students and nurses following him as he went. Hannibal forced a smile he didn’t feel onto his face as he shook the doctor’s hand, and exchanged a few words in parting. 

“I don’t feel very lucky,” Will said once they were alone. “Although, morphine is helping.” 

“It could have been far worse.” Hannibal’s voice was cold. The simple fact that Will had avoided damage to multiple organs in the attack, that the laceration on his liver was only a grade 3, was extraordinarily lucky. Now, as long as the surgical team hadn’t missed anything during their exploration, Will had to simply avoid infection, clots, and the various other complications that arose from any emergency surgical procedure. 

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Will asked, and he looked incredibly young to Hannibal in that moment.

“I was for a time, yes,” Hannibal admitted, approaching the bed.

“But not anymore?” 

“Not anymore,” he agreed, cursing the tenderness that was washing through him. How very ordinary it made him feel. He cautiously perched on Will’s bed, and the occupant wasted no time reaching out to grab Hannibal by the hand. Whatever panic he had been feeling seemed to have evaporated in the face of exhaustion and chemical intervention, leaving Will wrung out, tired. 

“I’m sorry,” Will said, sleepily. “Everything is _really_ confusing right now.” 

Unable to resist, Hannibal stroked Will’s face, careful not to disturb the nasal cannula he was still wearing, pleased that this time Will did not shy away from the physical contact. It wasn’t fair that one person could have such power over him, but try as he might, Hannibal could muster no resentment in the moment. He was far too relieved to be able to speak with Will again, even if their conversation up to this point had been more alarming than comforting. 

“You seemed to be having quite the dream,” he risked asking. 

Will swallowed, and looked away while his hand tightened on Hannibal’s own. “Anesthesia induced nightmare,” he finally murmured, his mouth trembling as the words mashed together clumsily. “I can’t remember.” 

Hannibal doubted the anesthesia had much to do with it at all, and also questioned Will’s lack of recollection. Whatever had played out within the theater of Will’s mind had disturbed him a great deal, and left him convinced upon waking that Hannibal’s first course of action would be to hunt down and kill Will’s attackers. It hit far too close to home for the doctor to feel at ease. 

There were a great many questions Hannibal wished to ask, but he found himself in the strange position of not wishing to hear answers. It felt as if they were poised on the precipice of a great change, and Hannibal was unwilling to take a step in any one direction for fear of tumbling them both into depths from which there was no return. For the time being, Will wished to remain ignorant, but Hannibal suspected this was only the beginning; try as he might, Will could only ignore his subconscious for so long. 

“How are the dogs?” he asked suddenly. “Is someone watching them?” 

“The dogs are fine,” Hannibal confirmed. 

“Are you fine?” 

Hannibal studied him, pleased to find Will unflinchingly maintained their eye contact. There was a great deal going on there, and again he felt the return of that dangerous, frustratingly precarious sensation. 

Hannibal wanted to pull back the blankets, peel away the bandages, and reinspect Will’s wound, count the stitches with his tongue. Wanted to cover Will with his scent, brand him with bite marks, reclaim all that had been touched and tainted by others. The need to possess him was dizzying and intoxicating, as was the way Will’s pupils dilated in response to what he saw in Hannibal’s eyes. 

He felt foolish as he sat there, not answering Will’s question. It hadn’t been so long ago that he had been convinced he would be able to hurt this man in order to protect his secret, to escape capture, but Hannibal now knew that to do so would be impossible. When the time came, and it might not be much longer now, he would be entirely at the mercy of Will Graham. He thought it to be a very pitiful, unfair ending for a man such as himself. 

“Hannibal,” Will began quietly, but the doctor silenced him with a kiss. He wasn’t sure how many more opportunities he would have to do this, and was surprised by the pain it stirred in his chest to think this might be the last. It was a slow, tender kiss, and he resented the fact that Will’s flavor was compromised by the sterility of the hospital environment. With the arm uninhibited by the IV, Will cupped Hannibal’s jaw, kept him from pulling away, returning the kiss with a soft, sleepy sort of intensity. 

“Better without the blood,” he murmured cryptically before yawning. Hannibal dared not ask for clarification, despite his curiosity. “Morphine,” Will added, rolling the word around his mouth with a smile. “I could get used to this.” 

“You should sleep,” Hannibal instructed, carefully disentangling himself to settle down in the chair closest to Will. “You’ve had quite the ordeal.” 

The profiler didn’t have much choice in the matter, exhaustion and chemicals taking over, forcing his eyes closed. Hannibal watched him for some time, frowning to himself, wondering how much time they had left together. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Alana is on a mission of mercy,” Abigail announced quietly as she reentered the room. Hannibal watched as she awkwardly lowered herself into a chair, shifting for a bit until finally propping her feet up on the edge of Will’s hospital bed. Once she was settled in, she let out a long sigh. “It makes it hard to hate her when she’s bringing me food. She’s getting you something, too. It’ll probably be deep fried, so I’m betting you won’t eat it.

Hannibal smiled at this, which he assumed was the desired result. “I was under the impression your feud with Alana had ended.” 

Abigail shrugged one shoulder as she rested her hands protectively across her protruding belly. “I guess I like her more now that she’s finally shut up about adoption,” she answered with narrowed eyes. “She’s not babysitting, though. I don’t know if I trust her that much.” 

Once upon a time, Hannibal would have happily seized the opportunity to sow further seeds of mistrust and doubt in order to amuse himself. Now, he simply couldn’t be bothered. The pregnancy had changed Abigail in interesting ways, and he was confident she would do nothing to draw attention to their household, especially when Hannibal knew things that could result in her being separated from the child she carried. In comparison to the ticking time bomb that was Will’s mind, his concerns regarding Abigail seemed paltry at best. 

Will’s long hours of unconsciousness had provided him with ample time to think. Confident in his ability to avoid capture, Hannibal had decided he would run when the time came. He spoke several languages, already had funds in offshore accounts, as well as an alias or two he could use. Although he was fond of his face, he wasn’t opposed to plastic surgery, if it meant freedom. 

The real problem was timing. Logic dictated he leave while Will was still in the hospital, and in no position to deter him. He might have been able to do so, if only Will hadn’t said, “I know who you are,” in that peculiar way, followed up later by “I love you.” It was far too much to expect, but Hannibal had always harbored the sad little hope that Will, with his pure empathy and gifted imagination, would be able accept him in his entirety. He had sacrificed so much of himself up until now it seemed foolish to leave before putting Will’s so called love to the test. 

It would be best to prepare for the eventual confrontation, though. While his own weaknesses would prevent him from physically harming Will, there was no need to allow himself to be taken into custody, locked away in some facility. If Will wouldn’t allow him to leave, the careful application of tranquilizing agents would do the trick, and then he would effectively exit Will Graham’s life. Perhaps he would send a postcard, from time to time. 

He wondered if Will would allow Abigail and the child to remain with him, or if he would return to his solitary existence, cutting himself off from the world while he dealt with his pain. As he watched Will sleeping, another idea occurred to Hannibal. Will might go so far as to run into another’s arms, and who better to comfort him than one also stung by Hannibal’s betrayal; the idea of Alana Bloom warming Will’s bed left Hannibal gnashing his teeth. Maybe his exit shouldn’t be a bloodless one, after all. 

“I don’t want to name her after my mom,” Abigail announced, momentarily confusing Hannibal. He had forgotten she was there, and turned in his seat in order to better participate in the conversation they were apparently having. “Isn’t that horrible?” 

“Has someone suggested you name your daughter Louise?” 

Abigail shrugged a shoulder. “No, but it’s what people do, right?” She stared down at her stomach. “I keep trying out different names in my head, but they all sound so stupid. At this rate, she’s going to be in school before I come up with something.” 

“Many cultures consider it bad luck to name a child before birth.” 

The young mother-to-be gave him a look as if to say he’d have to try harder if he wanted to make her feel any better. “When I think I’ve come up with something, I hear it or see it somewhere, and then hate it. I don’t want my daughter to have a stripper name, Hannibal.” 

He laughed despite himself. “An understandable concern.” 

In the silence that followed, he watched the even rise and fall of Will’s chest as he slept, oblivious of their presence in the room, of the machines beeping out the steady rhythm of his heart. Hannibal’s mind returned to his current dilemma, consumed with projecting himself down various, possible future paths. 

He was understandably distracted. The chaotic nature of the day, Will’s outburst, the fact that he hadn’t slept, and it was now almost five in the morning. He could pretend it was a simple, momentary lapse that made him answer Abigail honestly, but Hannibal knew himself too well to pretend it was anything other than deliberate. 

“What would you name her?” Abigail asked. 

“Mischa.” 

When Hannibal closed his eyes, he could see her cherubic face. He swallowed and ran a hand over his mouth as if to take back the utterance, jaw tight, furious with himself, with the world, with the troglodytes that had stolen her from him. He had made them and countless others pay for what had been done, but it had never been enough. Couldn’t be, ever. But this, hadn’t this been his lifelong hope, that his Mischa should once again have her rightful place in the world? 

“That’s pretty. What do you think, is your name Mischa?” he heard Abigail say, and it took every ounce of control not to strike her. No one save himself had spoken that name is such a very long time, it was unnerving to hear it issue forth from another’s lips. 

“Oh!” Abigail was beaming at him now as she reached for his hand. Mouth pressed into a thin, angry line, Hannibal allowed her to place his palm over her stomach, so as to feel the baby kicking from within. “I think she likes it. Don’t you, Mischa?” 

Hannibal bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, his nostrils flaring as he studied Abigail’s thin, delicate fingers where they were curled around his wrist. In his mind, he ran through the names and functions of the 27 distinct bones of the hand, and imagined crushing them into a fine powder, one by one, a calming mental exercise. Abigail was far enough along that inducing labor would be safe for the child, but there was no need to rush. It would be best to allow his Mischa to remain where she was, for now, but when he left the States, he would not be alone. He was owed this much, at least.

“Aš tavęs pasiilgau, Mischa,” he said softly, and the answering kick from within Abigail’s womb made him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aš tavęs pasiilgau, Mischa,” should equate in English to, "I have missed you, Mischa." I'm trusting online translation technology here, so if you actually speak Lithuanian and I've butchered it, I owe you a steamy Hannibal & Will sex scene. Actually, I think I owe us _all_ a steamy Hannibal  & Will sex scene, so maybe I'll get on that. No pun intended.
> 
> Meanwhile, the approach of the new season is killing me! I can't wait, but at the same time, I don't want to infect my headspace with the newness, and derail my own little universe. There was already something I had planned that now looks like it will come to pass in the trailer. You know, the one where Hannibal almost splits his fancy pants open being a sexy, sexy badass in that fight scene? I might actually have to wait until I've wrapped this up before I can watch. Such problems...
> 
> Also, just in case anyone is curious, there is at least one other, semi-long fic already planned for after this one, so if you're one of the lovely people who has spoken up about enjoying this story, don't think this is the end.


	17. That Sort of Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is finally coming out of his drug stupor. It hurts.

“ _I have this strange feeling that I'm not myself anymore. It's hard to put into words, but I guess it's like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling._ ”―Haruki Murakami, _Sputnik Sweetheart_

Will slept the sleep of the drugged, feeling as if he was constantly being pulled up from the bottom of a lake for short bursts of air, only to be plunged back into dark stillness for long periods of time. There were no dreams, just bouts of unconsciousness followed by people poking and prodding, asking questions he could barely stay awake long enough to answer. They would finish with him, and he would sink once more.

He’d lost track of time, but suspected he’d been in the hospital for at least a day. Bags seemed to perpetually empty and refill themselves on his IV stand. The faces of the people checking on him had changed, which indicated a shift had ended. The bed was less comfortable, now that his muscles were growing stiff from remaining in the same position, and he had finally grown aware of the catheter and longed for its removal.

During his brief moments of wakefulness, the ones he could recall, at least, Hannibal was to be found patiently seated in a nearby chair, but this time when Will awoke, he was alone in the room with Abigail. “Hi,” he said, rubbing his eyes, feeling more like himself than he had for quite some time.

“Hi, yourself,” she answered cautiously.

“Where’s Hannibal?”

Abigail studied him for a moment before answering. “Talking with Agent Crawford and Beverly.” Will got the distinct feeling he was missing something. “He hasn’t left the hospital even once, you know, so you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m a little… hazy on things,” Will said, not sure why he was suddenly feeling the need to be defensive.

“Do you remember anything from yesterday?” Abigail asked probingly.

Will tried to shift himself upright in the bed, but didn’t have much luck. He didn’t know what day ‘today’ was, which made remembering yesterday difficult. He hoped whatever was going on with Abigail was some strange pregnancy thing, and not something important he’d managed to black out. With a frustrated sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to backtrack through his memories.

Everything was confused, and bloody. There were flashes of trees, but that made no sense, because he had been in the city with Beverly, hadn’t he? They had found something, something concrete finally, to follow back to the Puppet Master, and then… “I got stabbed,” he said, sounding surprised, feeling surprised.

Abigail’s expression softened, which was just as confusing to Will as her irritation had been. Clearly, he’d done something to upset her, something he couldn’t remember. Trying again, he was able to recall a man with wild eyes. In his memory, he looked down in surprise to see a knife protruding from his abdomen, not understanding where it had come from. He knew that he should do something about it, but there hadn’t been time to draw his sidearm; it had all happened so fast, and with no warning whatsoever. He had staggered backwards, watching the knife come free in a strange, detached state of confusion, and the man who had stabbed him seemed equally shocked by what had transpired.

Without him summoning it, the pendulum swung through Will’s mind, and for a moment he was once again lying on his back on the sidewalk, scared and confused. At the time, Will had conjured up his imaginary Hannibal, not wanting to die without seeing him again, but it had been hard to control the hallucination, and nothing like the comfort of having someone he loved actually there. He could remember talking with the hallucination, apologizing, but then everything shifted and he was somewhere else entirely. Panic began to take hold of him as an abattoir materialized within his mind. Hannibal was there, licking his fingers clean of blood, and the look in his eyes...

“Hey, hey,” Abigail called, and Will blinked himself back into reality to find her holding his hand, looking concerned. “I’m sorry, nevermind,” she said, her eyes on the monitors. Will grew conscious of the angry beeping caused by his panic, and tried to focus on making the sound slow, attempting to force his heart into a state of calmness.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. He was surprised to find himself crying. “Shit.”

“It’s okay,” Abigail insisted, squeezing his hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You were just acting a little weird after the surgery, is all. Forget about it.”

Will pressed his lips together tightly in an attempt to still the trembling, overloaded with emotion, confused by memories that couldn’t be real. He felt more than a ‘little weird,’ he felt like someone had played around with reality while he was asleep, leaving him stranded in some other world where nothing made any sense.

He couldn’t shake the image of Hannibal’s features stained with blood, the sounds of flesh sizzling... it was making him sick to his stomach for reasons he couldn’t understand. He tried to remind himself that it was just a stupid, drug-induced nightmare, but that did little to help. There was something behind the dream, something that terrified him to such an extent that dread remained coiled within his chest, the weight of it making Will want to return to the blissful nothingness of his morphine induced slumber.

Just when he decided he should call for the nurse, Hannibal entered the room, and Will felt relief course through his body, the immediacy of it shocking, leaving him light headed, and giddy in the aftermath of its arrival. There was nothing to be afraid of here, couldn’t be. This was Hannibal, not the bloody creature his mind had constructed. Will tried to burn every last detail of his lover into his mind’s eye in a desperate attempt to eradicate the bloody visage haunting him.

Hannibal looked tired, his eyes hooded and sporting dark circles beneath them, but there was nothing Will could see within their depths aside from concern, and affection. He was certain Hannibal had been wearing a necktie when last he saw him, but it had gone missing, as had the vest. The top two buttons of his collar had been undone, he clearly hadn’t shaved recently, and his hair swung down over his forehead, product pushed long past the holding point. On anyone else it would have looked sloppy, but somehow the doctor managed to retain his elegance even in this. It made Will smile, and he held onto the warmth coursing through him as if it was a liferaft. There was no reason to be afraid.

“You seem to be more alert today,” Hannibal said by way of a greeting, wearing a soft smile.

For a moment, Will couldn’t see through his tears, and was confused when he heard himself saying, “I can’t find my glasses.” He sounded small, and pathetic, but he didn’t care. It was as if all the barriers normally keeping his emotions in check had been blown to smithereens, leaving him entirely exposed, and out of control.

“Not to worry,” Hannibal replied, “I have them, along with your phone.” He placed the objects in question on the overbed table so they would be within easy reach.

Will rubbed hurriedly at his eyes, closing them and inhaling deeply as Hannibal leaned in to place a kiss against his forehead, his scent momentarily pushing aside the cold sterility of the hospital. Will wanted to pull him back, bury his face against Hannibal’s chest, and just breath for a while. He felt foolish, guilty, hating his mind in that moment for what it had done with Hannibal’s likeness. “I’m a mess,” he announced, letting out a ragged sigh.

“I was way more of a mess when I woke up in the hospital,” Abigail said, laying the cheerfulness on thick. “You didn’t have tubes down your throat that you tried to yank out.”

“Abigail’s right, Will. You’re doing just fine.”

The idea of being fine made him want to laugh. Will could already feel himself growing tired, but wasn’t ready to give up his hard won consciousness just yet. This time, he managed to sit up, although he was grateful for the helping hand from Hannibal. “How long have I been here?”

Hannibal consulted his watch. “Approximately 26 hours.”

“That’s no so bad,” Will said, relieved. He had been scared to ask, not wanting to find out he’d slipped into some temporary coma, losing days or weeks. “What’s happening with the case?”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that just now,” Hannibal answered.

“Fuck that,” Will replied, frustrated by the dismissive answer, and Abigail couldn’t contain her giggle in response to his profanity. They both stared at her until she finally raised her hands in surrender.

“Fine, I’m leaving,” she said, stopping to jab her finger at each of them in turn,  “but good luck treating me like a baby once I have one.”

Once she was gone, Will refocused his attention on Hannibal. All of this was because of the Puppet Master. This needed to end, so life could go back to normal. “What happened? Did they catch him?”

Hannibal stared at him, his eyes dark and stormy, and Will found himself completely unable to read what was going on in his lover’s mind. Hannibal was quiet for a long moment, as if deciding how much he should divulge. “Beverly opted to ensure you made it to the hospital alive, for which I am grateful. As a result, your attacker was able to elude capture.”

Will cursed again, and Hannibal made a small noise of agreement, or perhaps frustration, Will was unsure which it was. “They have his likeness now, and are following up on your discovery at the shelter.”

Hannibal’s elegant hands were clasped loosely before him where he sat in the chair, but Will sensed he was far from relaxed. “What else?”

“Another body was discovered shortly after you went into surgery,” Hannibal said after a long pause. He placed a hand on Will’s knee, a reminder to remain still. “She had been dead for several hours,” he continued, and for some reason the knowledge was comforting. At least someone hadn’t died because of his encounter with the puppet. “This may explain the enthusiastic reaction upon seeing you at the shelter.”

Will could feel the impatience mounting within, the sense of everything spinning out of control. “How long do I have to stay here?” he asked, fists balled at his sides. With the amount of time that had passed, the body had already been removed from the crime scene. He would need to take photos with him, which were never as telling as being there when things were fresh. So much time had already been wasted.

Hannibal stood, slithering out of his jacket in an efficient, fluid movement Will had seen countless times, but still envied. He could only watch with apprehension as Hannibal rolled up his shirt sleeves, then walked over to one of the cabinets in the small room, helping himself to a pair of sterile gloves before returning to the side of the bed. “You were hemodynamically unstable upon arrival.”

Will swallowed as he watched Hannibal pull aside the blankets, found himself shivering, suddenly painfully aware of how vulnerable he was. He could only watch, holding his breath, as Hannibal flipped open the hospital gown, carefully removed the bandages, and revealed the large, angry incision that was the source of Will’s discomfort. He looked away, feeling queasy. He’d managed to avoid seeing it during the previous exams, and had the sudden, disturbing mental image of his stomach being unlaced like a pair of shoes.

With his eyes closed, it felt like the room was spinning dangerously around him, so Will forced them back open, and tried to focus only on Hannibal’s face. He felt awful, suddenly understanding that with his medical background, Hannibal would have been left to ponder every aspect of the surgery, every possible misstep, all the while unable to do anything but wait to see if Will survived. He knew how the doctor felt about control, and wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t seem to swallow, let alone speak.

“The surgery went well, by all accounts,” Hannibal continued, scrutinizing the wound. His breath was warm against Will’s stomach, but his voice was cold, clinical. “Your liver was damaged, and a transfusion was required, in case you were at all curious.”

Will thought it an incredibly unfair way to go about things, but he understood what Hannibal was showing him, realized that it was probably the only way to make it really sink in. He was going to be out of commission for awhile, and needed to get used to it. That didn’t mean he had to like it. He squeezed his eyes shut again, shivered as the bandages were replaced, relieved when the blankets soon followed. Hannibal took him gently by the chin, forcing him to raise his head, and Will opened his eyes, faced his lover. The anger he had expected was surprisingly absent.

“You will stay here as long as is necessary,” Hannibal said tenderly. Will could only nod his agreement. Hannibal released him, then went about removing and discarding the gloves. “There are guards posted outside the room.”

“You made your point,” Will said, hating how childish he sounded. “I’m not going to try to escape.”

“Escape isn’t the concern,” Hannibal clarified. “Abigail and I are also under the watchful eye of the F.B.I.”

Will scrubbed his hands through his hair and across his face, disturbing the tubing he had forgotten was there, growing more frustrated by the moment, cursing the drugs for dulling his reasoning. Keeping up with Hannibal was exhausting when it should have been the easiest thing in the world. Of course Jack would have assigned protection after the attack. “I assume they’re watching the house, too?”

“Yes, although nothing has come of it,” Hannibal confirmed, settling back into the chair after fixing Will’s nasal cannula. “Jack will force his way in here at some point.”

“I’m not going to have the answers he wants,” Will sighed, pain creeping in, as if seeing the wound had made it real. He wanted to call the nurses, but dulling the pain meant dulling his mind, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. “This wasn’t premeditated, and I have no way of knowing how he’s going to react to his little puppet coloring outside of the lines.”

“I told Jack as much.”

Will stared at the tightness in Hannibal’s stubbled jaw, the slight pursing of his lips, and was certain the doctor already knew what he planned to ask of him. As if hearing his thoughts, Hannibal smiled a bitter little smile, and began rolling his sleeves back down his forearms. “I would rather stay here with you.”

“This isn’t going to end until we catch him.” His voice sounded raw with pain, and Hannibal’s frown deepened. “Hannibal, please.”

“I have little faith in Jack’s ability to keep you safe.”

“They’re not going to get anywhere without help,” Will said softly. “You know the case… Besides, I don’t trust anyone else with this.”

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment, and when they reopened, he studied Will with an intensity that left the other man scared to speak. It was as if he was holding up a mirror, showing Will a reflection of the raw, emotional state he had been imprisoned within since the attack. It scared him, as he was counting on Hannibal’s steadfastness to see him through, to help him find a way back to normal.

When Hannibal parted his lips to speak, Will’s mouth went dry, and he almost started shouting out of fear of what he might hear, unable to understand why he was so afraid. “The words do not adequately express what it is I feel for you, Will.” Hannibal’s tone was apologetic, and Will broke out in gooseflesh. “I love you.”

Hannibal had never said it before, and Will hated how much hearing it _mattered_ to him in that moment. It shouldn’t have—they were just words, after all—but it did. Hearing that particular phrase in Hannibal’s accent left him shaking. Will swallowed back the lump in his throat as Hannibal left the chair in order to join him, one knee resting on the bed beside Will. He cupped Will’s face in his warm hands, thumbs stroking over cheeks as he peered down at him with such depth of emotion in his eyes that it made Will whimper.

And suddenly Will understood perfectly, painfully. It was entirely possible they might never see each other again. He was sending Hannibal out to pick up where he had left off hunting a serial killer, and anything could happen. The Puppet Master could target Hannibal, could already have someone within the hospital, just waiting for the moment when Will was left unattended in order to finish what had been started. The realization left him feeling hollow, and brittle.

Hannibal’s kiss was almost chaste at first, but Will pulled him closer, smashing their mouths together roughly, needing to feel, taste, hurt with it, and soon it was a snarling, hungry sort of exchange. Will didn’t want to say, “I love you,” or, “promise me you’ll come back,” or, “I’m sorry,” but his eyes said as much. All things must end, and the kiss was no exception, although Will’s mouth tingled with the memory of sensation, even as he watched Hannibal prepare to depart.

Just as he was about to leave the room, Will called out to him. “Hannibal. If the choice is you or him, don’t hesitate.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, even as he smiled. “Such capriciousness,” he said, and then Will was alone, left to puzzle through Hannibal’s parting words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. If you want the proper feel for this chapter, put Chopin's [Nocturne in F Minor, Op.55, No. 1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbbYKEodp0Y) on loop. Ouch. 
> 
> Meanwhile, things have been a little heavy on the angst over here, and I hate to say it's only going to get darker, so I thought we could all use a little breather. _[Intervallo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1222504)_ was just posted for your emotional  & smutty enjoyment. Set before this fic, Hannibal takes Will out to the opera.


	18. Artfully, Artistically Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Will in the hospital, Hannibal steps in to help Jack & Friends with the investigation.

“ _People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel_.”―Fyodor Dostoyevsky

 

There was no pendulum. No one spoke of design. The blood was dried, flaking in some places, still thick and tacky in others. The body had been removed. The room did not shudder back to life, transporting him to the moments before violence, showing him its secrets. No racing heart, no adrenaline surge. After all, this wasn’t Will Graham.

Hannibal Lecter bit back a yawn as he wandered through the Puppet Master’s latest crime scene, longing for a shower and a shave. He had opted to skip attending to his personal hygiene, wanting to spend as little time outside of the hospital as possible, and after entering the home of the victim was glad he hadn’t bothered.

Jack had been kind enough to provide him with an iPad loaded with photos before announcing he would wait outside while Hannibal “did his thing.” His “thing” was to explore the apartment of Kimberly Nelson, cataloging minutia for Will while formulating his own theories regarding the method hidden within the madness.

The kitchen contained mostly prepackaged foods, and very little by way of equipment that would allow one to cook. From what he could gather, everything was prepared in the microwave. Shockingly, her stove served as a storage unit, filled with old magazines, several pairs of mismatched shoes, and what looked to be old stuffed animals. The rest of the small basement apartment was equally disordered, messy, offensive. Unwashed dishes under the bed, clothes in piles everywhere, far too many empty bottles of wine. The medicine cabinet had been cleared of any prescription drugs, the bottles taken off as evidence, but a quick scan of the inventory he had been provided confirmed Hannibal’s suspicions of dysthymia.

Satisfied that he had an understanding of their victim, Hannibal moved on. Even if the killer had wished to hide in the closet, as had been the _modus operandi_ up until then, he would have been hard pressed to find room to do so. As if knowing hiding wasn’t an option, he had entered through the back door, which showed no signs of tampering, and went straight to work. Just to satisfy his own curiosity, Hannibal stepped through the door, which opened onto an alley. He wrinkled his nose at the warring smells of garbage and urine, pulling on a nitrile glove before feeling along the top of the exterior door frame. His fingers brushed a key, and he made a little ‘tsk’ noise of disappointment to himself, leaving the object _in situ_ for Jack’s people.

Hannibal doubted Ms. Nelson had any idea someone had made use of the spare key to enter her home with ill intent. Based on the spilled wine, and telltale butts in the ashtray, he expected the toxicology screen to show she was pleasantly inebriated at the time of death. She had been sitting in front of the TV when attacked from behind, smashed in the head by a rock. The blow had been forceful enough to send her crashing face first into the coffee table. No signs of a struggle. The blow from behind had been quick, effective, and almost certainly fatal. The additional blows had been for the fun of it, someone working out their frustration. The killer had circled around the couch in order to have comfortable leverage when caving in the head, making a great mess of things before the Puppet Master had arrived to leave his own mark upon the scene.

Hannibal consulted the photos. After the bludgeoning, the body had been propped back into an upright position on the couch. The signature smile left on the previous victims was missing for the simple reason that Ms. Nelson’s face was damaged to such an extent during the bludgeoning that additional cuts were impossible, and would have gone virtually unnoticed. Her abdomen had been opened like the previous victims, the gaping wound reminding him of Will. Hannibal frowned, irritated by the flutter of discomfort it caused him.

Flick, flick, flick. Photos from every angle, and Hannibal cycled through them all until he reached closeup shots of the Puppet Master’s contributions. Sharper, more appropriate implements had been used to open the body, which was refreshing, but the knife work was still sloppy, and lacked finesse. He had forgone the game of hide-and-seek with the organs, opting instead to place the poorly extracted chunks of meat in the cupped hands of the victim, which had been posthumously arranged demurely in her lap. The abdominal incision felt to Hannibal like someone simply going through the motions—there was no joy, no victory in this mutilation, the true organizer’s will supplanted by that of the minion.

The click of the iPad going to sleep was drowned out by the sound of a passing train. Hannibal stood in the living room, feeling the weight of the hours that had passed since he last slept. He thought back to that first crime scene in the kitchen, of his amusement at the time, of the desire to see how the fledgling killer would evolve. It felt like a lifetime ago.

With a sad little sigh, Hannibal refocused on the task at hand. The puppet was wound up, set loose, an enthusiastic participant. They had discussed the previous murder, Will uncomfortable as he explained the attacker’s arousal during the event. Hannibal found this to be no different, although the symbolic penis had been thankfully phased out. Their puppet hated his body’s physical response to women, and they paid the price for his discomfort. Hannibal could almost taste religious zealousness in the air, made a mental note to bring this up with Jack.

He was more curious about the person organizing these attacks, the one who continued to elude Will’s imagination. Everything he had seen up until this point screamed of an all encompassing need to control. Sadly, this little tableau illustrated the pointlessness of the endeavor. How very disappointed he must have been when he discovered the state of Ms. Nelson. When the penultimate moment arrived, the puppet’s strings had ultimately been cut loose by his own passions, rendering the master’s final contributions obsolete.

As a small consolation, they were certain to walk away with forensic evidence this time. Bloody footprints had been tracked through the apartment, he easily spotted signs of someone attempting to clean up, could smell bleach. Between the mess made of Ms. Nelson, and the impromptu attack on Will, Hannibal was confident the puppet would be disposed of. Whether or not the body would be left somewhere for them to find was a different matter altogether.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“The role of Will Graham is now being played by Hannibal Lecter,” Jimmy said in a cheesy announcer voice. Beverly glared at him until Jimmy shrugged. “What, we can’t joke now?”

“I got it,” Brian said, sidling up to Jimmy, “like when they changed actors in soap operas, right?”

“Exactly.”

“I thought it was funny,” Brian added quietly, and Jimmy thanked him.

“Kimberly Nelson,” Beverly announced, using a little hand flourish as she presented the body to Hannibal. “Wasn’t Jack with you?”

Hannibal bent at the waist, peered into what was left of Kimberly Nelson’s face, marveling at the aftermath of brutality. “He was called away. Something to do with our friend Ms. Lounds, I believe.”

“Told you so,” Jimmy said, and Brian cursed, began digging into his wallet.

Beverly looked at Hannibal apologetically. “We’ve been trying to figure out where she got her info about Will receiving calls from the killer. They must have finally found something they can use to pressure her.”

“Even better, we’ve identified Will’s attacker,” Brian announced, smiling proudly. “Gary Buttram. We’re almost positive he’s our puppet, but Jack wanted you to have the final say on that.” He handed Hannibal a file folder, which the doctor began flipping through.

Hannibal spent a long moment staring at the most recent arrest photo of Buttram, the man who had dared hurt Will. He hoped the creature had been made to suffer when put down by his master. Mid-forties, white male, history of mental illness, living on the streets, frequently seen at the shelter in question, known for his erratic behavior. He’d also been seen at the Baltimore City Counseling Center, which connected him to one of the victims. Of particular interest to Hannibal was a reference to Buttram’s preoccupation with Biblical end of days prophecies.

“He’s the puppet,” he said with conviction, handing the file back to Brian, “although I expect his days are numbered.”

“Great,” Beverly sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “We finally get a name, and he’s already turning into another body.”

“This conductor you’re looking for,” Hannibal began, returning his attention to the corpse of Ms. Nelson, “volunteers at homeless shelters, likely more than one. Crisis intervention, or support groups, would also have been particularly appealing.”

“Didn’t Ted Bundy work at a suicide prevention hotline?” Brian asked.

“He likely holds a position of respect or authority in the community,” Hannibal continued, ignoring the remark. “Church official, law enforcement, a person with medical expertise, something of that nature. I expect you’ll find Kimberly Nelson had a tenuous connection to Lisa Yates, as well as Gary Buttram, specifically through the Counseling Center.”

“So, he’s been targeting the mentally ill,” Beverly said, frowning.

“It would have been more entertaining,” Hannibal explained. “He plays into their fears, encourages them to act, and enjoys the show. Ms. Yates was a miscalculation, but he found in Buttram an invaluable zealousness to tap into.”

“Wonder who he’ll tap into next,” Jimmy murmured.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jacob hit refresh, as if that could somehow force new content to appear. He had expected an update by now, something bombastic and petty regarding Will Graham being stabbed, and yet there was nothing new on Tattle Crime. Checking mainstream news sources, he was able to find some watered down information regarding a stabbing outside of the Helping Hand Mission, but Graham was not named, nor was there any word on his condition, or the investigation. Worse yet, there was nothing he could find anywhere mentioning the gruesome discovery of the Puppet Master’s latest victim. All and all, it was suspiciously, frustratingly quiet.

The muffled sounds of someone screaming interrupted his train of thought, as had happened countless times over the course of the day. Frustrated, Jacob logged off, and headed for the basement. The stairs creaked under his weight, footsteps loud on the old wood as he made his way down, ducking his head to avoid pipes.

“Gary, we talked about this,” he said, sounding as if speaking to a child that had been told repeatedly to clean his room. “You know what you need to do.”

“Please,” Buttram begged, face crusted with snot, tears, and blood. Jacob walked around him once, twice, making certain the chains hadn’t been tampered with, but all appeared to be in order. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“We don’t get to pick and choose which of God’s orders to follow,” Jacob said patiently.

“But, I’m special, a chosen one,” Gary said, eyes wide and hopeful, as if this time the answer would be different.

Jacob sighed as he crouched down in order to be on eye level with Gary. “You _were_ chosen. You threw that away, remember?”

Gary nodded, sniffling. “I can make it up, though. You’ll see.”

“Yes, you can,” Jacob agreed, using his foot to slide the hammer closer. “Do you remember how long, how hard we prayed? You know this is your only chance into Heaven, and you’re running out of time, Gary. What do you think it’ll do for the war, when one of God’s chosen is sent to Hell?” He waited for a moment while that sunk in, then pretended a thought suddenly occurred to him, taking a few steps back as if in shock, or fear. “Or… have you been an agent of Satan all along?”

“No!”

Jacob eyed him suspiciously, really hamming it up. “I want to believe you, Gary, really I do, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why else you’re refusing this opportunity to make things right.”

Weeping, begging, pleading, demands, and Jacob found himself growing bored. He consulted the digital timer he’d positioned opposite his guest. Ten hours and forty-two minutes remained. While he wasn’t allowed to use any mind altering chemicals, or inflict any bodily harm, there was no rule saying he was required to be subjected to the man’s pathetic bleating during the time left.

As if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Jacob headed back upstairs. It took a bit, but he finally found what he was looking for, and headed back down. “I really wish you hadn’t made this necessary,” Jacob said as he forced the ball gag into Buttram’s mouth, buckling it as tightly as possible. He brushed the greasy hair back from the man’s forehead before grabbing him by the ears, giving him a little shake. “I’m only trying to save you, Gary.”

The noise was much improved with the addition of the gag, and Jacob felt some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He stretched, cracked his neck, and sighed. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Gary’s fingers trembling, as if he wanted to, but could not quite bring himself to take up the hammer.

“There’s still time,” Jacob said solemnly. “I believe in you, Gary, and more importantly, God believes in you.” He knew the man was considering ways in which to use the hammer to free himself, or to harm his captor, but Jacob was still confident enough to come within reach once more, this time placing a hand on Buttram’s forehead as he mock prayed over him. “You’ll be saved. I know it.”

With that, Jacob left the basement once again, glancing at the spot where he knew the camera was mounted on his way out, giving a little shrug as if to say, “what can you do?” He wasn’t concerned just yet. He expected Gary would wait until the final hour before following the instructions he was given. There was no need to wait around for the show—it was all being recorded, anyway, so he could always watch the end play out after returning home from work, maybe while eating his dinner. And if Gary failed to follow orders, well… he was in for a world of unspeakable physical and psychological pain. Either way, Jacob was the winner, and certain it would cheer him up. He could use some cheering, after all. The way things were going, drastic changes might be in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter was necessarily case focused and not so much Hannibal/Will focused. I promise next chapter has some flirting and feels along with all the murder talk. I'm actually hoping to have a mid-week update for you, so hang in there. Meanwhile, my Google doc for this story is now 107 pages! Not sure why that surprised me? Pages fly when you're having fun, I guess. 
> 
> We're getting close to some pretty epic happenings, though, so hang in there!


	19. A Sense of Humor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana keeps Will company in the hospital. Hannibal explains some things to Jack. Jacob deals with the guest in his basement.

“ _He had a bizarre sense of humor_."—Former Dahmer classmate

 

_Exciting development, catheter removed. How are you?_

Will hemmed and hawed for a moment, then sent the text message. He’d held off calling or texting Hannibal, but time moved differently in the hospital, and he felt painfully disconnected from the world. He only had so much charge left on the phone, and suspected the nurses would frown upon realizing he had one in there to begin with, so he’d been careful about usage. Of course, with too much free time, drugs, and imagination, it was killing him not knowing if Hannibal was safe.

“Okay, between the nurses and your guard, I almost didn’t make it in here,” Alana announced as she entered the room. Will jumped, almost launching the cell phone across the bed, but managed to recover at the last minute. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!”

He switched the phone to vibrate and tucked it under the blanket, nestling it against his thigh. “Where’s Abigail?”

Alana began unpacking the contents of the bag she’d smuggled in. “Sound asleep, hopefully. I had one of the guards take her back to my place so she could shower, and get comfortable. These chairs are tough enough when you’re _not_ pregnant.”

Her smile was infectious, and Will found himself responding in kind as she presented him with a container of wonderful smelling soup, and a spoon. “I know Hannibal would have made you something if possible, but since he’s otherwise occupied, this is the next best thing.”

“Thanks. I’m glad I’ve moved past ice chips,” Will said, accepting the container gratefully. “I get to walk around now, too.”

“Well, aren’t you special?”

Will took a spoonful despite it being too hot, then tried to work through the pain before swallowing. “I really, really am.”

“By the way, if anyone asks, Abigail and I are your sisters.” Will looked understandably confused. “They only wanted to let family in to see you, so...” She shrugged, then settled down to began eating her own food.

The soup was amazing, but that might have had something to do with only having hospital grade broths up until that point. He paced himself, as food had only been recently reintroduced to his system, and the pain medication was definitely interfering with his appetite. He watched Alana as he ate, trying to recall if he’d ever seen her wearing casual clothes before.

Beneath the covers, the phone vibrated against his thigh, and Will hurriedly set aside his meal in order to see what he had received from Hannibal.

_The attempt at sexting is found wanting. I am well, despite being unwashed. We have the identity of your attacker. Developments unfolding. Hope to return to you shortly. Have you eaten?_

Will laughed, then regretted it as a wave of pain hit him.

“Is that from Hannibal?” Alana asked around a mouthful of food. He nodded, not looking up from the phone. “Thought so. You have a goofy little smile on your face.”

_If you have to wash, don’t shave. Alana brought soup. Arrest forthcoming? I guess I should wait until you’re here for updates. Phone battery low._

He wanted to add, “I miss you,” but couldn’t quite bring himself to. “They identified my attacker,” Will said, sliding the phone back under the blankets, refocusing his attention on Alana.

“Good! Do they have him in custody?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m guessing some progress has been made. Hannibal can give us the update when he gets here, whenever that is.” Will returned to his soup, hating himself just a little bit for wanting to re-read Hannibal’s text message. “Thank you, by the way. This isn’t the first time you’ve kept me company in the hospital.”

“Well, hopefully its the last,” Alana answered. “And it’s my pleasure. Hospitals are so lonely.”

“I think Hannibal is worried someone is going to sneak in while I’m sleeping and finish the job,” Will added, setting aside the soup once more. He’d reached his limit for the time being. “The worst part is, he could be right.”

This announcement clearly troubled Alana, and Will instantly regretted mentioning it. “So how are you getting along with Abigail these days?” he asked, wanting to change the subject.

Alana tipped her head to the side, and made a noncommittal noise. “We have our good days, and our bad days. I think with you hurt she’s called a truce, which is nice. She’s so good at pushing my buttons.”

“Just like real sisters,” Will said, then fished back under the blankets to retrieve the vibrating phone.

_Am I to be Josephine to your Napoleon? Les choses que nous faisons pour l'amour. To be continued in person. Expect me in 2-3 hours._

He had no idea what the French meant, but knew enough to recognize l’amour. Unable to help himself, he copied and pasted the phrase into a search engine, smiling upon seeing the results. _The things we do for love_.

Will turned off the phone, tucking it into the little hiding spot he’d devised, then looked up, finding Alana was staring at him with a knowing look on her face. “You know, if I didn’t already love you both, I’d have to hate you for being so disgustingly meant for each other.”

A wave of embarrassment washed over Will, and he could feel that he was blushing. He ducked his head, feeling incredibly awkward. Alana thankfully took pity on him. “So, Abigail finally came up with a name for the baby.”

Will was forced once again to recognize how much he went out of his way to remain willfully ignorant about the goings on of Abigail’s pregnancy, and felt ashamed. He’d been right there ready to defend her, give her a place to stay, but the birth terrified him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. It was childish of him, really, and he vowed to engage her on the subject when she returned to the hospital.

For the time being, though, he would bluff his way through the conversation with Alana. “That’s great, I know its been bothering her.” There was no confused reaction, so he figured he was in the clear. “What’s the name?”

“Mischa,” Alana announced with a smile. “It’s pretty, right?”

Will’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Did Hannibal give her the name?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Why? It isn’t some little prank of his, is it, because she loves the name.”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that, I’ve just heard it before.”

“Maybe it’s a family name.”

Will scoured his memory until he came up with the answer. When they had been in the process of moving in together, he had been helping Hannibal unpack one evening, and came across a collection of sketches. He’d asked permission before looking through them, marveling over the attention to detail, pleasantly surprised to find several of himself mixed in.

There had been one drawing, though, that stood out from the others. She looked to be quite young, and was pictured in a field of flowers, smiling cherubically. Such care had been taken with the sketch, it was obvious to Will she was someone of importance in Hannibal’s life. Instantly, Will found himself wondering if Hannibal had a child somewhere in the world that no one knew about. The name ‘Mischa’ had been written at the bottom. Curious, he had held the drawing aloft, asking, “Who’s this?”

Hannibal had tried, and failed, to hide the extent to which the question upset him. He’d used great care when taking it from Will’s hands, placing the drawing back in the pile before gathering up all of the sketches, tucking them away on a shelf. “Perhaps another time,” he had finally said, and Will felt like he was walking on eggshells for the rest of the evening. He hadn’t been brave enough to broach the subject again, and had ultimately forgotten about the incident entirely until hearing the name of Abigail’s unborn child.

“I think you’re right,” he told Alana. “A family name.” Maybe he would be brave enough to ask Hannibal about it when they saw each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“What do you think?” Jack Crawford asked, eyes narrowed as he stared through the one-way mirror at Freddie Lounds.

They’d finally discovered that the killer had been sending periodic floral arrangements to the redhead, the cards containing tidbits that had found their way into her articles. The reporter’s stance was that she couldn’t name the source, even if she had wanted to, as the flowers had simply _arrived_.

“I suspect Ms. Lounds has gone out of her way to remain ignorant.”

Jack nodded, frown deepening. “One of these days she’ll cross the line, and someone will be able to lock her ass up. I just hope I’m around to see it.”

“Agreed.”

They watched as Freddie left her seat, pulling a tube of lipstick from her purse before heading over to the mirror. She took her time fixing her makeup, winking and blowing a kiss when finished. Hannibal could sense Jack’s tension ratcheting up, which had clearly been her intention.

“By now our killer must be wondering at the lack of news regarding his latest victim. He’ll be growing anxious, and may be bolder when reaching out to his favorite journalist.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Jack agreed. “Someone’s already watching her office, but I’ll have eyes on her after we set her loose. Meanwhile, we’ll see what we can find through the florist.”

“Most likely, he sent Buttram in with cash,” Hannibal said.

Jack sighed, clapped Hannibal on the shoulder. “Still worth a shot. Walk with me,” he requested, gesturing to the door. They headed to Jack’s office, Hannibal finding the lighting of the hallways particularly harsh after the dimness of the observation room. “So, tell me about this killer of ours,” Jack asked once they were behind closed doors.

As he took a seat, Hannibal pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the tension headache that was developing. He was beginning to feel worn thin. “It would be best if Will and I discussed matters first.”

“No time, Doctor. If Will takes issue with anything you’ve told me, just pass along the alternate theories after your chat. Let’s hear it.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and he had to work very hard not to allow his irritation to make its way into his voice. Considering Will was in the hospital as a result of lending Jack a helping hand, and Hannibal was separated from him in order to do the same, he did not appreciate being spoken to like the hired help.

“He had a strict upbringing. Likely, this strictness extended far beyond the boundaries of his familial home, trapping him within a world of constant scrutiny, such as one finds within certain religious communities. Buttram’s zealousness was genuine, whereas the _use_ of him suggests a disdain for religion as a whole.”

Jack frowned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “Where does religion come into play in this mess? There haven’t exactly been bible passages left scattered about.”

Hannibal sighed, unable to prevent the escape of a soft noise of impatience. “Reread Will’s recounting of the Coffield murder, and Buttram’s profile. His shame over his own uncontrollable sexual response to women is most certainly closely connected with his extreme religious views. If we’re ever afforded the opportunity to speak with the sordid little players in this production, I suspect we’ll learn Buttram gladly bought into some grandiose notion of himself fulfilling the role of the vengeful hand of God.”

He waited a moment before continuing, allowing Jack the opportunity to press the issue, but he simply sat back in his seat and steepled his hands, nodding for Hannibal to proceed.

"Will posited this need to control others stems from the powerlessness experienced during his upbringing, and I concur. We also agree that, at some point, likely in his teens, an opportunity presented itself, allowing him to act independently, perhaps for the first time in his life."

"What sort of opportunity?" Jack asked.

"The ending of a life, likely in a manner one would classify as criminally negligent homicide."

Jack nodded slowly. "So, our killer finally has his first taste of power, and gets hooked."

"Precisely. He is clever, and therefore would have sought clever ways in which to reclaim this power. Continual accidents would have drawn too much attention, and his need to revel in his newfound independence would have weighed heavily upon him.

Will brought the suicide of the first victim’s mother to your attention, confident our killer had a hand in the act, and I agree. At one time, he was able to tap into great reservoirs of patience. Positioning himself as a lifeline to those in need, winning their trust, gradually convincing them to end their own lives, or those of loved ones, would have been extremely gratifying. In fact, the manipulation leading up to the death would have been more satisfying than the death itself.”

“This killer you and Will keep describing seems to have very little in common with the Puppet Master we’re currently dealing with. Bludgeonings, stabbings, his hide-and-seek with the organs.”

“A bone of contention, to be certain. Will suspects a need to have his acts recognized, but we lack perspective; some key event prompted a break in form. He was truly gifted, and it’s uncertain his actions would ever have come to light. Imagine, a lifetime of manipulating others into mercy killings, or suicides, with us none the wiser. Instead, he abandons his calling in order to pursue the spotlight."

"You almost sound disappointed in him," Jack said, a wry smile in place.

"What I am is curious," Hannibal replied. "What could have possibly lured him astray? There's a sense of urgency at play. Some unseen deadline he's up against."

"Could he be dying?" Jack asked.

Hannibal pursed his lips, considering, knowing the longer he was silent, the more Jack’s thoughts would wander to his dying wife. He took his time. "I suppose its possible. I’ll defer to Will’s opinion on the matter. One thing is certain. The victims were not random. He knew each of these women, had some regular contact with them, which will eventually reveal itself."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Although he was tired, and it would have been far simpler had things played out as he had hoped, he had to admit he was happy Gary hadn’t followed through on the orders to bash his own head in with a claw hammer. He sat where he had sat for the last twenty-four hours—in his own filth, chained to a support beam in Jacob’s basement.

He’d finished up work a bit early, and as a result was able to be home before the clock ran out. Like a kid on Christmas morning, he rushed to check the camera feed, chuckling to himself when he saw his captive was still among the living, although sound asleep.

After preparing some treats for Gary, Jacob had quietly crept down the stairs, wanting the alarm to do its work. As he’d hoped, Buttram awoke in a state of panic as the timer ended and the alarm blared, the noise he’d picked making it sound as if a freight train was tearing through the basement. Jacob allowed it to continue for a moment or two, watching Buttram’s panic, ultimately silencing the alarm before he developed a headache. He smiled beatifically at his captive audience, clapping slowly.

“Gary,” he began, shaking his head, “I see you’ve made your decision. ‘Today I have given you the choice between life and death, between blessings and curses. Now I call on heaven and earth to witness the choice you make.’ Did you look upon this as a test of your faith?”

Tears streaming down his face, Buttram nodded, making a pathetic noise, ball gag still firmly in place. Jacob pulled on a pair of gloves, retrieved the hammer from the floor, and set it aside before grabbing the bottle of water he had brought with him. He carefully removed the gag, allowed Buttram to drink, smiling and making comforting noises as the man guzzled the offering, eyes wide and hopeful. Once his thirst was slaked, Gary managed a hoarse, “Did I pass?”

“Well, Gary, here’s the thing.” Jacob chucked the empty bottle of water in a nearby trashcan before peeling off and disposing of the gloves. He grabbed a chair from the far side of the room, dragging it across the floor, the sound grating like fingernails on a chalkboard. “You seem to have conveniently forgotten that while suicide is a sin, so is murder.”

Gary answered with conviction. “I acted out His will, and His will only. There’s no sin in that.”

Jacob sat down, crossed his legs, and looked at his watch. “Technically, you took it on faith that you were doing God’s work. He never spoke to you, never materialized by your side to guide your hand as you thrust your stake into Angie. Did He make you come in your pants while smashing Kim’s head in with a rock? I’m pretty sure that was all you, you twisted little fuck.”

He had the feeling that Gary was beginning to understand that he may have misplaced his trust. His mouth opened and closed several times, eyes blinking rapidly as he absorbed Jacob’s words.

“You’re going to start feeling a little funny before too long,” Jacob explained, brushing some dirt off of his pants. “I added quite a bit of LSD to the bottle of water you just drank. Don’t worry, it isn’t enough to hurt you, but you’re going to have some epic hallucinations. Once it starts kicking in, I thought it might be fun to do a sort of tribute, if you will.”

He ignored Buttram’s babbling protests, and gathered up the rest of the goodies he’d brought into the basement for some show and tell. “You didn’t want to use the hammer on yourself, so I’m going to put you on the workbench over there, and hammer these spikes through your hands and feet.” He cheerfully held the thick spikes aloft. “You and Jesus will have something in common, then.”

Gary was practically frothing at the mouth, a tidal wave of pleading and excuses pouring forth.

“And since you can’t keep quiet, I’m going to have to put the gag back in. All the God this, God that shit is really sort of pathetic, Gary.”

As he suspected might happen, Gary tried to bite him, so Jacob stunned him with a quick punch to the bridge of the nose. Once the gag was securely fixed, he gave Buttram a little smack to get his attention again.

“Is it starting to make sense yet up in that crazy head of yours? You most definitely have not been doing ‘His’ work; you’ve been using this God bullshit as an excuse to act out your own sad, nasty little fantasies.”

Jacob found himself yawning. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. I think I’m going to pop upstairs to eat something, so you stay put and try to have some fun as the drugs kick in. I’ll be back in a bit, and we can get on with it.”

Jacob began to head upstairs, smiling to himself at the sound of Gary screaming around the ball gag. Just before he would have been out of sight, he stopped, as if remembering something, and turned to face his captive.

“A piece of friendly advice, Gary,” Jacob said solemnly. “Use this time to reflect. Once we begin, it’ll be very hard to think about anything other than making the pain stop. See, once the spikes are in, I’m going to see how many pieces I can cut you into before you die.”

Buttram began thrashing about as best he could, all to no avail. The chains were tight, and he wasn’t going anywhere. “Gary, Gary, calm down! Don’t worry, I picked up a blowtorch, so I’m going to cauterize along the way. We’ll have plenty of time together. By the end, you’ll finally understand that, while there is no God, or Heaven, there is a Hell, and you’re in it.”

With a little spring in his step, Jacob headed upstairs, stomach rumbling. It was going to be a long night, so maybe a pizza was in order. Just before he shut the door behind him, he shouted down, “You should have used the hammer, Gary!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait, needed to post the next chapter well ahead of schedule. I'm sure no one minds. ;) No worries, this does not mean chap. 20 will have an extra delay. That should drop Saturday morning. As always, thanks for the wonderful comments / feedback. I'm totally addicted to all of you.


	20. Without Defense or Reserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal finds himself worn a little thin. Will finds himself unable to shake his bloody thoughts.

“ _There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve_.”―William S. Burroughs

 

Hannibal unlocked the front door, then did as was asked of him, remaining outside while his escorts conducted a search of the interior. He had no reason to expect they would encounter anything suspicious, as the house had been under surveillance for some time, but knew it was pointless to argue with the F.B.I. He waited, listening to them calling out as each room was cleared in turn.

“You’re good, Doctor Lecter.”

After extending his thanks, Hannibal stepped into his home, pausing once past the threshold. The emptiness was profound, and he realized it had less to do with the lack of people than with the absence of Will’s dogs. They had become ever present in his life, and he had managed a begrudging appreciation of them, even if he disliked their shedding, slobbering ways. Somehow, their absence felt ominous, as if Will wasn’t ever coming back to the house.

Hannibal scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to force the sleepiness away as he headed upstairs. Once in the bedroom, he found himself staring at his own reflection while methodically undressing; it was unsettlingly like watching a stranger. While exhaustion was certainly at play, he knew there was more to his mood than that. There was a heaviness, a deadening sensation he seemed unable to shake. How much longer would this be his home? He was painfully aware of the inevitable end creeping ever closer, and it was robbing him of the ability to enjoy what little time he had left.

He blinked slowly, staring into his own eyes as he stood in the bedroom he shared with Will. It would grow less painful with time, he reminded himself. With a newborn to care for, and authorities to avoid, he would have plenty to distract him from thoughts of Will. Thoughts of his smell, of his quiet, desperate moans, of their long conversations, of his slightly crooked nose, of the taste of him, the feeling of his mouth, of his eyes...

There was a loud cracking sound, and suddenly Hannibal’s reflection was distorted, disfigured. He stared at his fist as if it belonged to someone else, slowly pulled it back from the mirror, knuckles bloodied. He heard one of the guards call out a question, and quickly responded before anyone came upstairs. He remained in front of the shattered mirror for several more minutes, heartbeat slow and steady as he watched the blood begin to wind its way down over his knuckles, and around the wrist of his raised arm.

Mindful not to leave a trail of blood on the way, Hannibal went into the bathroom and prepared to shower. He wasn’t sure what to say when Will asked about the mirror, but then reminded himself that he might already be gone by the time Will saw it. This time he was aware of the way he automatically balled up his fists at the thought, and was able to prevent himself from striking out blindly. Sadly, this was a problem violence was unable to solve.

Hannibal groaned in pleasure as he closed his eyes and allowed the hot water of the shower to beat down on his face. He braced his forearms against the tiled wall, let his head hang down, and the warmth wash over him. He watched the water going down the drain, enjoying the way his own blood intermingled, coloring things as if in a dream. There were several, blissful moments of quiet, but his mind seemed intent upon torturing him with thoughts of Will.

Far and away, the majority of his life had been spent intentionally celibate, and things had been simpler for it. But in sex with Will he had discovered some secret, disappointingly human part of himself, and knew this physical hunger for the man would haunt him for the rest of his days, much as his lust for the kill haunted him now. A return to blood would help, but he was having trouble believing he would ever truly be rid of Will Graham. He would be plagued with thoughts of him, with longing, knew himself well enough to admit he would need to find ways in which to keep tabs on him, to know what was happening in his life. It would be impossible to simply sever all ties, start a new life. He would haunt Will’s, but what of the day when his spies reported back that Will was seen in the arms of another? Did he really trust himself not to come stalking back to the States in order to reclaim what was rightfully his?

Based upon the text messages he’d received, it was fairly certain there hadn’t been additional informative dreams, which meant he was required to continue pretending everything was okay. In his current state, he felt as if the mask no longer fit, suspected Will would take one look at him, and become alarmed by what he saw. Jaw tight, Hannibal adjusted the shower, bracing himself against the shock of the cold water.

He felt a bit more alert as he toweled himself dry, brushed his teeth, combed his hair. As he dressed, he went through a mental exercise, slowly reassembling his emotional barriers as best he could. It would be easier, once he had the chance to sleep, but for now it would need to suffice.

He caught himself about to put on a vest and tie, and set them aside, along with the suit jacket. Casual would be more appropriate for the setting, and would also please Will. Within the closet, his suits seemed to mock him. Not knowing when and where the confrontation would take place meant there was a good chance he would be unable to take anything from the house with him.

He pushed the thought from his mind as he packed a bag for Will. While his shoes were fine, the blood soaked clothing had been cut off of Will in the ER. Hannibal went through the drawers, picking out items he knew were particularly comfortable, as well as comforting, to Will. After adding some toiletries and the cell phone charger to the bag, Hannibal headed downstairs. He was anxious to leave. Everywhere he turned, he was faced with some reminder of what he was going to lose.

Despite the desire to escape, he found himself in the kitchen, preparing a light meal. He hadn’t eaten in quite some time, and considering his current uncertain state of affairs, it was best to refuel, in case another opportunity failed to present itself. As always, the act of cooking was calming, relaxing. By the time he was arranging food on a plate, he felt more himself than he had in days. Hannibal took his time eating, focusing on the flavors, textures, intent upon staying in the moment. When he was finished, he cleaned up, feeling comforted by the familiarity of the procedure.

There was one more stop to make before the hospital, which was his office for syringes, and sedatives. It would be best to be prepared from now on, he reminded himself, even as his heart sank at the thought. Jaw clenched with determination, he closed the front door behind him, refusing to allow himself to look back.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will jerked into wakefulness, momentarily confused as to where he was, then was equally startled to find that he was no longer alone in the hospital room. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get them to focus in the dim lighting. He had tried to stay up, but Hannibal’s two to three hour arrival estimate had turned into at least six before Will had lost his battle with sleep. Hannibal must have arrived at some point after that, and decided against waking him. He was sprawled in the chair closest to Will, dead to the world.

With a shaky sigh, Will settled back against his pillows and tried to calm down. In his dream, they’d been back at Hannibal’s old house. At first, it had been an almost faithful recreation of the night Hannibal had suggested they live together, with Will finding himself naked, spread across Hannibal’s dining room table, thrusting up into Hannibal’s mouth, wondering what had prompted the sense of urgency the other man was projecting. Still fully dressed, the doctor had devoured him, until all that existed was a world of pleasure.

But somewhere amidst the moans of delight, of Hannibal’s mouth and tongue seemingly impossibly everywhere on his body at once, things had taken a strange turn. He propped himself up on his elbows, winding his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, becoming distracted by the realization that there was a large zipper running from just below his navel up to his sternum. “Has that always been there?”

Hannibal paused, looked up, a mischievous smile in place. “Of course.” He slid his hands up Will’s sides, ran them across his chest, then dragged his fingernails up and down the teeth of the zipper, licking his lips. “Shall I?”

Will didn’t remember answering one way or another, but couldn’t look away as Hannibal began teasing the zipper downward, opening him, a hungry look in his eyes. He’d panicked at first, expecting his intestines to begin tumbling free, but oddly enough it was looking decidedly empty inside of his abdominal cavity. Hannibal made a little ‘hmm’ noise as he fished his hand in through the opening, searching.

“I’ve tried pacing myself, but still,” he murmured, rooting around, “there isn’t much left.”

He sounded quite disappointed, and Will felt guilty until an idea occurred to him. “There’s always the heart.”

Hannibal’s eyes widened, and Will could tell the idea thrilled him. “Weren’t you saving that?”

“No, you can have it,” Will stroked the side of Hannibal’s face. “What else am I going to do with it, anyway?” They laughed together over the remark, Will not entirely sure why it was all so amusing, but laughing anyway.

There was no pain when Hannibal reached inside, a look of grim concentration on his handsome face. He smiled, began kissing Will with a slow intensity as he worked, until finally there was a strange sucking noise that was accompanied by a sense of a burdensome weight being removed. Will sighed contentedly. He hadn’t realized how much his heart had been bothering him, until it was gone.

Hannibal chuckled as he held the organ aloft, showing it to Will, locking eyes with him as he took the first bite, blood dribbling down his chin as if he had bitten into a particularly ripe pear. Will watched, mesmerized, wondering how it was he could still feel it beating away in his chest, even as it disappeared into his lover’s mouth. Right before waking up, he could remember thinking that Hannibal had no right to be so beautiful in that moment, but that he was, and Will wanted him more than ever.

Will had to fight the compulsion to look under the blankets, under the gown, to make certain the zipper wasn’t actually there. He wanted to wake Hannibal, tell him about the dream and see how he reacted, but even in the semi-darkness of the room it was clear the doctor was exhausted. Will had a feeling this was the first real sleep Hannibal had managed since the stabbing.

He wasn’t sure what to do about the dreams, though. They reminded him uncomfortably of the nightmares plaguing him during the encephalitis. Back then, even the idea of sleep was enough to make him feel hot with panic. Compared to what had become his normal dreamscape after the treatments, the steady stream of blood and Hannibal his brain was intent on presenting him with since being admitted to the hospital was alarming. He wanted to chalk it up to the stress of being stabbed, or the various drugs they’d put in his system since his arrival, the case he was working on, but had a sinking feeling none of those things were ultimately to blame for what he was being shown.

Will tried to remind himself that he had been spending most of his time as of late fixated on sussing out the identity of a killer, multiple killers, really, and that the stay in the hospital was the longest he’d gone without staring at crime scene photos. His brain could simply be purging. Or, the bloody themes surrounding Hannibal could represent his fears of the man being killed before the Puppet Master had been caught, his own fears of commitment, and the potentiality for hurt that loving brought with it. But, try as he might, Will couldn’t seem to shake the unwelcome thought niggling at the back of his mind; Hannibal looked at home in blood.

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Will stared at Hannibal as he slept on, oblivious. He’d done as Will asked, hadn’t shaved, although he had clearly washed up and changed. It wasn’t fair that just looking at him made Will feel better, stronger. He indulged himself, trying to match his breathing to that of Hannibal’s, appreciating the rare opportunity to watch him as he slept. Hannibal was ever vigilant, and usually when Will thought he’d managed to wake up first in order to get the drop on him, Hannibal made it clear that he’d been awake all along.

But he was sleeping soundly now, long legs stretched out in front of him, head hanging low against his chest. Will swallowed once more, pressing his mouth into a thin line. It didn’t matter, he decided, heart hammering wildly in his chest. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, because he had no way of going back, of figuring out how to live his life without this strange man at his side. Despite coming to this decision, Will was still left worrying, wondering, hoping, begging some unseen universal force that whatever it was, whatever secret his brain had decided Hannibal was protecting, that it wouldn’t hurt too bad when he finally learned the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will wasn’t certain when he had fallen back asleep, but was thankful it was a dreamless affair. Hannibal had still been in the chair beside him when he opened his eyes, awake this time, going over the latest photos from Jack on the iPad. There had been some initial awkwardness—Hannibal had watched him, almost as if expecting a confrontation of some sort—but Will had pushed through the moment, making it clear he was eager for an update on the case. If they were going to have some strange, life changing conversation, it was going to have to wait until he was out of the hospital. There was only so much he felt capable of dealing with at once.

Hannibal had suggested they take a short walk through the corridors, since Will was now required to be up and about as part of his recovery process. They had kept the pace slow, and took a few more breaks than Will would have liked, but he wasn’t going to complain. Just the fact that he’d managed to avoid serious complications, and was in a position to walk down a hallway was worth celebrating. As they walked, Hannibal quietly filled Will in on the new developments of the case, which was just the distraction the profiler needed. Will couldn’t help but think that if he had a therapist, the fact that chats about murder made him feel as if things were normal in his life might have been a good topic of discussion.

Alana had been nice enough to drop her off on the way into work, so Abigail was waiting for them when they returned to the room. After the necessary greetings, Will couldn’t help but force a return to the matter of the Puppet Master, unwilling to let the conversation shift to banalities. “I get Jack’s angle, but I don’t buy it. I’m willing to concede something important changed in his life, but dying? It just feels _wrong_.”

“I agree,” Hannibal said, sparing a glance for Abigail.

“Don’t even try to tell me to leave,” she said, not bothering to look up at them from the book she was reading.

Will shrugged, and so Hannibal continued. “There is an outside motivation we’re unaware of.”

“He’s trying to impress someone,” Will pointed out, groaning as he settled into one of the available chairs. The walk had been more tiring than he had expected, but he’d long since grown sick of being stuck in the bed. Sitting up for a while would be good, despite the soreness.

Hannibal circled behind him, then began to rub Will’s shoulders. Will hadn’t realized how tense he was until Hannibal’s fingers began working their magic, and failed to bite back a groan of surprised pleasure. He closed his eyes, and enjoyed the massage, letting his head tip back to rest against Hannibal’s stomach.

”I suspected he was performing for you, but perhaps not.”

“Well, it’s important enough for him to almost entirely abandon his methodology,” Will said, not bothering to point out how rare that was for serial killers.

“Maybe he’s in love.” Hannibal’s hands stilled, and Will blinked several times, each of them looking to Abigail for an explanation. She stared back at them as if they were being particularly stupid. “Look, I don’t know the gory details, and I’m no shrink, but if you’re talking about wanting to impress someone, and something profound that makes you change things you never thought you would about yourself, that sounds like love.”

Will tilted his head so he could look up at Hannibal, who was still staring intently at Abigail. Will glanced at her, then back to Hannibal, feeling as if he was missing something important. The moment stretched on uncomfortably, until Hannibal snorted with laughter, finally looking down at Will. “Abigail may be correct.”

“Shit,” Will added, beginning to warm to the idea.

“Considering all you two do is stare into each other’s eyes all day and drool, I’m surprised it didn’t already occur to you.”

“Sorry, true love doesn’t usually come to mind when hanging out at bloody crime scenes,” Will said, momentarily made uncomfortable when his mind offered up a flash of the dream Hannibal sinking his teeth into Will’s heart. He almost jumped when the man in question resumed the shoulder massage, and did his best to force the uncomfortable thought away. “I wonder who the lucky lady is.”

“Or guy,” Abigail added with a pointed stare.

They were interrupted by Hannibal’s cell phone ringing. While he couldn’t make out what was being said, Will could tell it was Jack. Abigail looked up from her book again, and joined Will in watching Hannibal, each of them waiting to hear what had developed.

“Yes, of course,” Hannibal said before hanging up. He stood quietly, tapping the phone against the palm of his hand as he contemplated what he had been told.

“What?” Will demanded, unable to wait any longer.

“They’ve just arrested an intoxicated homeless man. It seems he was paid twenty dollars to deliver a package to Freddie Lounds.”

“I hope it was a bomb,” Abigail interrupted, and Will shot her a look before refocusing his attention on Hannibal.

“On the contrary, it was the head of Gary Buttram, the man who stabbed Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still haven't watched any new episodes of Hannibal, and it is killing me. But we're getting really close to some crazy times in this fic ( _like there hasn't already been craziness, sheesh_ ) and I can't let myself be derailed by Fuller's reality.
> 
> Meanwhile, writing this is always interesting, because at this point I find myself typing with purpose, and then all of a sudden Will or Hannibal says something I had no idea they would say, and I reread it and realize I can't delete it, because it feels too right. Not to tease, but the next chapter... *whistles*
> 
> As always, thanks so much for the flood of positive feedback! I compulsively check for messages after posting, because I'm that addicted to all of you, and you've shared so much love that I really can't thank you enough.


	21. The Storm Adjusts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will goes about things in a bad way.

“ _Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones_.”― Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_

 

“I understand if you need to go,” Will said for the third time. “Jack’s only going to keep calling for so long before he just has one of his agents drag you out of here.”

“So be it,” Hannibal said, eyes dark.

Shortly after Jack’s call, Will had been informed that, due to his progress, he would be switching hospital rooms. That had been almost three hours ago, and Hannibal was intent on sticking around until it happened. He wanted to make certain everything met his exacting standards and, Will suspected, to take note of the new faces so he could be on the lookout for a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Each minute that passed, Will grew more anxious. He wanted this all done and over with, and Hannibal could be helping manifest that reality, but instead he was acting like Will needed another bodyguard.

“This could be a big break in the case,” Will reminded him.

“Jack Crawford is perfectly capable,” Hannibal countered. “By all accounts, he remembers nothing of the individual who approached him, aside from the fact that it was a man with twenty dollars.”

“Give up,” Abigail suggested. She had helped herself to Will’s bed, and sounded half asleep.

Despite being tired, Will was walking in half circles around the room, knowing he needed to rebuild his strength. He was trying to see how long he could go without having to use the PCA pump, regardless of the discomfort. They would be weaning him off of the painkillers before too long, anyway. Hannibal intercepted him, standing in his way, taking hold of the IV stand.

“That’s enough for now,” he said softly.

With a sigh of resignation, Will allowed himself to be helped back into a chair, having to admit defeat. His legs were shaking, and his brow was damp with sweat. He hated feeling so weak, just wanted to fast forward through this part of his life to a time when he was able to sleep in his own bed, fuck, eat normal food, work. The only problem was the sense of impending disaster he couldn’t shake. Maybe instead of moving forward, he needed the ability to travel back in time, back to before the stabbing, the dreams, the doubts, all of this confusion.

Will watched as Hannibal settled into the chair opposite him, and despite the more casual dress, and the growth of beard coming in, it suddenly felt like Doctor Lecter was in the room with him, not his partner. If he let his eyes droop a bit, he could almost see Hannibal’s office materialize around them as they sat in silence, Will feeling uncomfortably as if they’d stepped back into one of their early therapy sessions. Days of guilt, of fevered hallucinations, and fear of losing his mind. It felt like an entire lifetime had passed since then, and the surreality of the moment prompted him to take advantage of the painkillers while he still had the ability to self administer them.

Once he felt comfortably numb, Will decided it was time to finally ask about the elephant in the room. “So, are you going to tell me how you hurt your hand?”

Will had made it clear earlier that he’d noticed—Hannibal hadn’t bothered to hide the injury, the knuckles showing signs of bruising, as well as several lacerations—but there had been no explanation forthcoming. Hannibal flexed the hand in question before drumming his fingers across the arm of his chair. After a moment, he met Will’s inquisitive look, expression neutral, distant. “I suffered a momentary lapse of control.”

Will watched Hannibal, feeling around the edges of the words his lover had chosen. For some reason, the phrasing irritated him. “You hit something.” The doctor nodded his assent. “Violent loss of control doesn’t seem your style.”

“No.” Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and he blinked slowly, almost as if daring Will to press the issue.

“You act with purpose,” Will added crisply. Hannibal’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly; he hadn’t failed to notice Will’s careful phrasing, or the slight touch of venom in his voice. Will wasn’t precisely sure what he was doing, but was unable to stop his mouth. “Are you looking forward to talking to the killer?”

“I’ll leave that to you, or Jack.”

Will swallowed. “You might have better luck. You have things in common.” Hannibal arched an eyebrow at this remark, but otherwise refused to take the bait. “Control issues, I mean,” Will eventually added.

As he watched, Hannibal somehow managed to project a state of relaxation, even as his eyes made it clear to Will that he was aware that he was being goaded, and didn’t appreciate it. Will wasn’t even sure what it was he was insinuating, and felt sick to his stomach by the direction he’d steered their conversation. He thought he had made his decision, reminded himself that he wanted to wait until he was at least on his feet before confronting Hannibal, but the longer they sat there, the angrier he became. Will was convinced that Hannibal knew about the dreams he’d been having, knew he was agonizing over them, and was simply observing, waiting to see how things played out.

Will turned as best he could in order to see if Abigail was watching them, but she had fallen asleep in his hospital bed. “I guess I’m not great company right now.”

“That’s understandable,” Hannibal answered coolly, and Will found himself thinking once again of when they’d first met. It was as if Hannibal had placed himself behind a wall of professional detachment, leaving Will out in the cold. He could no longer read the man, and in that moment he hated Hannibal’s ability to hide so effectively. It made him angry, and so without thinking he lashed out with something he knew was certain to get a reaction.

“Who’s Mischa?”

It was almost a thing of beauty to watch Hannibal’s walls come tumbling down; he’d been completely blindsided by the question. What little victory Will felt was short lived. Before him, Hannibal’s eyes actually welled with tears, his lips parting as he took in a sharp breath, pain evident in every feature, as if Will had physically wounded him without provocation. Worse yet was the look of confused betrayal in his eyes as he swallowed back the pain, the anger, grinding his teeth as he met Will’s inquiring gaze. There was no looking away, and Will felt very much as if he had made a mistake, stomach in a tight knot as he watched Hannibal lose his battle with holding back the tears.

“I had a sister, once,” he answered, his accented voice so thick with emotion that Will had to look away, guilt washing over him. In one fluid movement, Hannibal rose from the hospital chair, turning his back to Will as he scrubbed a hand across his face to collect any stray tears. He purposefully avoided meeting Will’s gaze as he gathered up his things and headed for the door.

“Hannibal,” Will called, trying to rise from his seat, but not making it very far. He sat back down, feeling cold, trying to understand what had just happened.

“You know, you’re a real asshole sometimes,” Abigail said from the bed, making it clear she’d been awake the entire time.

Will scrubbed his hands over his face, laughing at her remark, because the only other option was to cry. “Yeah, I am.”

Abigail shifted, slowly going through the arduous process of getting herself up and out of the bed. "You're so _stupid_."

"I got that," Will said, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Thanks."

"You know he loves you, right?"

Will rubbed hurriedly at his eyes, pushing aside the tears as Abigail came over to take the seat Hannibal had just vacated. She glared at him, until finally Will hissed, "Yes, I know."

"So do you think its easy for him seeing you like this? How would you feel if he'd been stabbed?"

Will swallowed and shook his head. "It's not that simple. He's... Hiding something. Important."

Abigail gave Will a look as if to say 'duh.’ "Everyone has secrets. Have you told him every last painful detail of your life?"

"Abigail..."

"You made him cry!" Will didn't have a good comeback for that. "On purpose. You knew that would hurt him, and that’s why you asked."

"I..." Will had to stop, because really, that was exactly what he had done. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I need to get off the pain medication."

"Don't use that as an excuse," Abigail said, frowning. "If I don't buy it, neither will he. What are you doing?"

Will looked away, plucking at the tubes of the IV stand, unable to face her. "I don't know. I keep having these dreams," he said softly, "and they're... not good."

Abigail rested her hands on her protruding belly, clearly waiting for more. When nothing was forthcoming, she prompted him. "So?"

Will looked around before finally meeting Abigail's inquiring look, if only for a moment. "So, I don't think Hannibal's secrets are like other people's. I think... I'm worried he's done something. Bad."

"Maybe he has," Abigail said, and something in her tone made Will think she knew more than she was letting on. "So, what, you're just going to push him away before finding out?"

"I wasn't... I don't want to push him away, he's closing himself off from me!"

"And your solution is to attack him? Right, that really makes people want to open up. Good job."

"You don’t..."

"He's hardly slept or eaten in days, because he's been sitting here, watching over you. Someone tried to kill you, Will, and we’re all just sort of waiting for them to come back and try again. That’s kind of stressful.”

Will laughed, ducking his head as he struggled to get control over the conflicting waves of emotions threatening to drown him. “It’s stressful for me, too,” he finally spat at her.

“I’m sure it is, but everyone has been really understanding about your stressed out weird behavior. Meanwhile, all he wants is to be here, to protect you.”

“Maybe I don’t _want_ protection.”

“Right, this maniac has forgotten all about you.”

If he could have run away from her, Will certainly would have. “What happened was bad timing,” he tried to explain, carefully enunciating each word in an attempt to not yell.

“Well, I certainly hope there isn’t more ‘bad timing’ while you’ve got Hannibal out doing your job for you,” Abigail said. “You certainly went out of your way to make sure he’d get back to it.”

Will shook his head, “The sooner this guy is caught, the sooner we can all get back to our lives.”

“Your life hasn’t stopped, Will. This is part of it, and you’re making a mess of things, acting like he’s one of your killers, and throwing dead relatives in his face.”

“What if he is, Abigail?” Will asked, unable to keep the words inside, unable to hide any of what he was feeling any longer. Mouth trembling, entire body shaking, he looked to her, pleading. “What if he killed somebody?” He wanted her to say he was crazy, that it was impossible, but she didn’t.

Abigail’s eyes were cold. “You mean like you?” Even as he broke down, Will was able to appreciate the way Abigail had given him a taste of his own medicine, blindsiding him with something certain to cut to the bone. “You emptied your gun into my dad, and I forgave you. I love you, even.”

“That’s,” he started, but gave up, swallowing back his words, his excuses, unable to even breathe through the pain.

Abigail rose awkwardly from her seat, still scowling. “All I know is that Hannibal saved my life, and I love him. I don’t care about anything else.” She headed for the door, adding before she left, “Don’t let your fear of happiness ruin your life.”

And then Will experienced a momentary lapse of control, hurling a nearby water pitcher across the room, screaming out his pain and frustration as it crashed against the wall.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal glanced at the screen of his phone, sending the call to voicemail as he had done with the previous attempts to reach him since he’d left the hospital the day before.

"What do you think?"

"It's not unheard of."

"But do you think it'll get us anywhere?" Jack pressed.

"Possibly. You should be prepared for the consequences, though."

Jack frowned. "You're not being particularly helpful here, Doctor."

"You know as well as I do how unpredictably these killers react when under pressure. Ultimately the decision is yours."

It might not have been the shining endorsement Jack was looking for, but it was enough. "Fine. Then we do it. I want you and Will to really push this guy's buttons. I'll get you set up in a room."

There was no point in protesting. Hannibal set his jaw and followed Jack, who provided a laptop in addition to a private room from which to call Will.

Hannibal prepared his work space, carefully lining everything up before taking out his phone. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to collect his thoughts. It would be difficult to hear Will’s voice, but if he was being completely honest with himself, he loved Will all the more for having gone for the jugular.

It had been extremely painful, but Will's behavior had reminded Hannibal of the potential he'd seen in him from the very beginning. An extraordinary, promising, tempting individual, someone that might be an equal to the likes of Hannibal. Once the initial sense of betrayal had passed, Hannibal had found his heart racing for very different reasons. He had underestimated Will, had forgotten how very alike they were in certain ways. Perhaps it was a gift to be reminded.

That wouldn’t make the conversation any easier, though. Will was waking up, so to speak, and if Hannibal wasn’t careful, he would lose everything much sooner than he’d like. Pushing these thoughts aside, Hannibal called Will, switching to speakerphone as he placed the cell on the desk.

"Hannibal," Will answered, sounding relieved.

Before he could continue, the doctor cut him off. "Jack intends to have an article published in _Tattle Crime_. He's asked us to provide Ms. Lounds with key points to focus on, as well as some inflammatory quotes."

He could hear Will breathing heavily on the other side of the connection. "Fine. But I’ve had time to think, and I need to say some things first."

Hannibal took the call off of speakerphone, pressing it against his ear before answering. “Very well, I’m listening.”

Will took a deep, jagged breath. "I’m sorry about your sister. I didn’t know what was there, but I knew whatever it was would hurt you, and I used it against you. It felt like you were hiding, and I needed to see you.”

"Did you enjoy what you saw?"

"Not particularly," Will said, and as he closed his eyes, Hannibal could summon up Will's face, pale and haggard with exhaustion, an overload of emotion on display. "I actually feel like puking."

"Take care not to disrupt the sutures."

There was a ragged laugh from the other end of the phone. "Hannibal, you scare the shit out of me. And not in the ways you're thinking."

"Are you reading minds, now?"

"Can we just admit that we’re both aware of the fact that I’ve been having these… dreams, visions, nightmares. Whatever you want to call them. My brain is trying to tell me that you’ve been keeping something important a secret. Am I right?"

“Yes.” Hannibal held his breath.

“Good. Hannibal, this is crucial—I don't want to talk about it. Especially not over the phone, when you’re surrounded by the FBI. I’m not in the right headspace. Can we wait?”

“Yes, of course.”

Will continued on as if he hadn't heard Hannibal’s response. “Because, I’ve been trying to ignore it, but we both saw how well that worked out yesterday. I hate this passive aggressive bullshit I’m pulling on you, and I can’t handle head games right now, so at least this way we don’t have to pretend it isn’t _there_.”

Hannibal worried at his lower lip with his teeth. “Continuing to do so would likely be counterproductive.”

There was another sigh from the other end of the line. “Hannibal, just don’t do anything before we actually talk. If you,” there was a pause as Will momentarily lost control of his voice, “if you disappear on me, I’m going to find you, even if it takes the rest of my life.”

“I understand,” Hannibal answered, closing his eyes as a strange, heady sense of delight washed over him.

“Abigail raked me over the coals after you left,” Will said, sounding as relieved as Hannibal felt. “She said I’m afraid of happiness. The worst part is, she’s right.”

“Men like you and I seldom have what normal society would look upon as happy lives.”

Will made a noise of agreement, and Hannibal wished he could see him. “She gave me a lot to think about. I’ve been selfishly ignoring this for a while, haven’t I? Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it, but in talking _around_ it… I think you were happier, before me. And that scares the hell out of me, because I don’t think I was ever happy a single moment in my life, until you.”

“You may be confusing simplicity for happiness,” Hannibal said softly. “Life was admittedly less complicated, which is in itself a sort of pleasure. Never forget, I find you endlessly fascinating, Will Graham.”

“A high compliment indeed,” Will replied, and Hannibal could tell he wasn’t being sarcastic. “Okay. I feel a bit better. Scared to death, but better. Are we okay?”

Hannibal licked his lips, thought momentarily of the tranquilizers in his jacket. “We are.”

“Can you come back to the hospital?” Will sounded as if he expected to be turned down.

“Yes, but it won’t be until Jack feels I’m no longer needed.”

“Right,” Will tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Hannibal could still hear it. “So what is it, exactly, he’s trying to accomplish with this _Tattle Crime_ article?”

“I believe he hopes to spur the Puppet Master into action.”

At this, Will unleashed a diatribe outlining the ways in which Jack was making a mistake, ultimately demanding Hannibal get the man in the room so he could officially go on record with what a categorically bad idea he thought it was.

As he went to fetch Jack, Hannibal tried to convince himself that their conversation had been a sign of good things to come. At the heart of it, though, his Will had a deep-seated disdain for the monsters he hunted. While he might have convinced himself he was prepared for the worst, it would be the height of folly to think once he truly understood who and what Hannibal was that he would be able to look upon him with anything other than revulsion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Will, I tried to make you not have asked him about Mischa that like probably ten times, but couldn't take it back. These characters have minds of their own, I swear. At least Abigail is sane. Well, sane-ish. The worst bit is, Will really thinks he's got his head wrapped around shit now, not even knowing how very, very, very much worse it really, really is. *shakes fist at sky* Just wait until when you guys actually have The Conversation.
> 
> Meanwhile, life has dumped some shit in my lap, so I'm glad I wrote this _before_ that happened, as I would have been crying at the keyboard. Hopefully, the schedule shouldn't be thrown off too much (updates once a week at minimum), but the posting days might be different. Like, today is Thursday, not Saturday, but whatever! I live dangerously.
> 
> Also, I'm horrible at tags and summaries, so if anyone has suggestions for tags or the actual summary of the work, holler back. I'd love to get more people addicted to my brand of crack, lol.


	22. Just Looking Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob seethes. Will has a very different sort of dream. Hannibal rests his weary head.

“ _Imagine being sentient but not alive. Seeing and even knowing, but not alive. Just looking out. Recognizing but not being alive. A person can die and still go on. Sometimes what looks out at you from a person's eyes maybe died back in childhood_.”―Philip K. Dick, _A Scanner Darkly_

 

Jacob stared at his computer screen, a sinking sensation taking up residence in his stomach as he absorbed the latest _Tattle Crime_ headline.

PULLING THE PUPPET MASTER’S HEARTSTRINGS

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said to the screen, one hand gripping the side of his head as the other hovered over the mouse. He pulled up the full article, scanning it several times before being able to slow himself down enough to read it. “No, no, no…”

The bitch claimed that the silence on _Tattle Crime_ as of late was due to her collaborative work with the FBI. A quote from Will Graham stated they’d recently discovered she was at the center of the Puppet Master’s dark world, the object of his undying affection and admiration, that he was killing to court her. Worse yet, Graham claimed that based on the victims and the staging of the crime scenes, the killer harbored a hidden desire to be completely dominated by the reporter.

“Killers like this, they often can’t perform in a normal sexual relationship, and many resort to necrophilia. Corpses don’t judge your performance. This so-called Puppet Master is particularly interesting. Based on what we’ve seen, it’s safe to say that in his fantasies, Ms. Lounds recognizes his talents, and rewards him by making him her sexual slave. Despite what you might think, what we’re dealing with here is an extreme masochist, not a sadist.”

Jacob rose from his desk, turning off the computer quickly, as if that would make the article go away. He spun in a circle, looking around his home, knowing he didn’t have much time. It was out there, it would be seen, and there was no taking it back. She’d ruined everything.

All the years of beatings, of rituals, following the rules, saying the words, choking on his growing hate, the struggle for his independence, his power… Masochist? _Masochist_! But it was worse than that, it was what he knew came next, the sacrifice that would be required if he was to see his way through the mess she and Will Graham had caused.

After taking several deep, calming breaths, Jacob checked his watch. Definitely not a lot of time, but there was no way around it now. He hadn’t wanted to use his contingency plan, had hoped he’d never need it, but she’d left him no choice. He needed to start immediately, before everything slipped completely out of his control.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Hannibal walked into the room, Will found himself unable to think of, or look at, or comprehend anything other than what a welcome sight he was. It was almost as if the room hadn’t been real until Hannibal entered it, and Will hated himself a little for having such a foolish, lovesick thought. It was such treacle, especially considering how they had last parted. But Hannibal smiled at him, a tired, hesitant little smile, and Will was so captivated that he accidentally inhaled some of the food he was eating, causing a coughing fit as it went down the wrong way. The accompanying pain broke whatever spell he was under, his abdominal muscles crying out in protest.

“Hi,” he finally managed to squeak out. Hannibal was still wearing the clothes Will had last seen him in, and looked exhausted. Will set down his fork, pushing the overtable aside, no longer interested in his food. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“When was I here last?” Hannibal asked by way of answering. He pushed Will’s table back in front of him, handing him the fork. “I see you’ve moved onto solid foods.”

“You’ve spoiled me,” Will said, taking a bite before Hannibal could lecture him. “This tastes like cardboard. And don’t try to distract me. Hannibal, that was like two and a half days ago, you need to sleep.”

Hannibal pulled up a chair and settled into it as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Will supposed that in some ways, he was. In that moment, he felt incredibly guilty all over again for his behavior the last time they’d been together. Under different circumstances, he would have wanted nothing more than to climb onto Hannibal’s lap, and spend the next hour or two kissing, grinding, groping, trying to make up for the pain he’d caused.

Oblivious to Will’s thoughts, Hannibal fixed him with a pointed stare. “I suspect they’ll be releasing you before too long. Released does not mean a return to work. Agreed?”

Will shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. Did the article go up yet?”

Hannibal frowned, but didn’t argue. “Yesterday.”

Even though it was difficult to choke down, Will managed to eat the remaining food, then once again pushed aside the overtable. He shifted as far over as possible in the bed, gesturing at the available space. Hannibal watched him warily for several moments, sparing a glance over his shoulder at the door before rising.

It was a tight fit, even with Hannibal on his side, and there was no way to share the bed without being pressed against each other. Will sighed contentedly as Hannibal’s warmth radiated out against the length of his body, relaxing, comforting. “I’m sorry, I smell awful.”

Hannibal pressed his face into the crook of Will’s neck and breathed deeply before making a noncommittal noise, settling back against the pillows. Will’s heart was racing, as if it was the first time they’d been this close to each other. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but Hannibal was already falling asleep, lips slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. It was the hardest thing in the world not to touch him, force him back into wakefulness in order to talk with him, but instead of being selfish, Will remained as still as possible, letting Hannibal drop off into sleep.

Once it seemed safe to move, Will carefully wriggled closer until Hannibal's breath was a warm puff against his cheek, closed his eyes, and tried to pretend they were home in their bed. He was thankful they’d had their phone conversation, because he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to go through with saying what needed to be said while looking Hannibal in the eyes, and he doubted he would have been able to invite him into the bed without having said his peace.

Pressed against the warm, familiar contours of Hannibal’s body, surrounded by the scent of him, Will found falling asleep to be the easiest thing in the world. One moment, he was in the hospital, the next he was standing in a faintly familiar field scattered with blooming flowers. It was the quintessential perfect day. Warm, but not too warm, the grass and growing things around him fragrant, birds and fat clouds in the sky above.

Will was glad to find himself dressed in something other than his hospital gown. A quick glance informed him they were the clothes he had been wearing when stabbed, although he was barefoot. Unable to help himself, Will happily wriggled his toes in the grass as he studied his surroundings intently. He heard laughter, spun to face the source, and instantly knew where he was—inside of Hannibal’s drawing.

Amazingly, impossibly, Hannibal was there with a little girl, looking shockingly young. Will couldn’t move, knew his mouth was hanging open as he watched them playing, heart racing painfully in his chest. Hannibal could only be six or seven, but it was him, it was most definitely him, and Will wanted to pull him up into an embrace and never let go. It wasn’t Hannibal’s age, or size that was so flummoxing, it was the _absence_ in his eyes. There was a foundational pain his Hannibal carried with him even in his happiest moments, but this boy hadn’t been marked by it yet. He was still whole.

Will settled into the grass, laughing as the little girl, Mischa, tore loose handfuls of grass in order to throw them at her brother. He smiled and scolded her in a language Will didn’t understand before plopping down next to her, beginning to craft a crown of flowers for her to wear. Will could only wonder if there had ever really been a moment like this in Hannibal’s life, or if it had been made from whole cloth by Will’s imagination.

Watching them was gratifying, but Will couldn’t resist the urge to simply sprawl in the grass, and let the sun warm his face. He gave a jolt of surprise when several moments later the child version of Hannibal approached without hesitation, and curled against his side, small hands grabbing fistfuls of Will’s shirt as if to keep him from trying to get up and leave.

“So you _can_ see me,” he laughed, pulling Hannibal closer, kissing the top of his head. Hannibal propped himself up on an elbow and called out to Mischa, beckoning her to join them. Will had trouble tearing his eyes away from Hannibal as he spoke, aware that this must be Hannibal’s native tongue, and suddenly his mouth, the way he shaped his words, made so much more _sense_. But he could hear laughter, and so Will turned to watch Mischa as she ran over, her chubby limbs flailing as she tried not to trip over her dress. By the time she plopped down on his right side, she was breathless with laughter, her cheeks bright and rosy.

In a clear, heartbreakingly beautiful little voice, she let out a flurry of words, and the only one he could understand was Hannibal’s name. It sounded different than the way he, or anyone else, had ever said it, and not only for the pronunciation, or that she was a child, but for the sheer magnitude of love, of pure adoration that was wrapped up in that single word.

Beside him, the boy in question smiled as he reached over to adjust her crown of flowers, speaking to her tenderly, and Will panicked, forcing aside the memory of the grown Hannibal’s face, of the pain in his voice when he had confessed, “I had a sister, once.” Will now understood he could have just as easily said, “I had _everything_ once.”

Unable to help himself, he pulled both of the children closer, kissing each of their foreheads in turn, scared that he would lose control of the dreamscape and invite disaster into their beautiful afternoon. But the sun remained in the sky, and Hannibal and Mischa clasped each other’s hands across his chest, holding Will hostage in their shared embrace. Slowly relaxing, Will watched the birds soaring through the sky above them, taking note as the children’s breathing began to synchronize with his own. He let his eyes droop closed, and they slept together in the grass.

When he woke, Will was momentarily confused to find a much older Hannibal partially curled around him, one hand resting on Will's hip, as if even in his sleep Hannibal was aware of the injury he mustn’t come into contact with. He watched Hannibal for a moment, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the tension around his mouth, even in sleep. He suspected Hannibal's dreams weren't nearly as peaceful and restorative, and that made Will unspeakably sad.

Will found himself wondering how Mischa had died. He hadn’t been in a position to ask, and Hannibal certainly hadn’t been willing to offer up any additional information, but Will had a sinking sensation that it hadn’t been a peaceful death. “I had a sister once,” he thought to himself, and finished Hannibal’s sentence with, “until she was taken from me.”

It had been by force. Will was positive, now. Not an accident, not sickness. Will knew there was something there, something unspeakably awful that had changed Hannibal forever, had hollowed him out in ways that hadn’t really been evident to Will until the dream.

He wished he had the power to push his fading thoughts into Hannibal's mindscape, give him a bit of peace, reunite him with Mischa if only for a moment. Since he couldn't, Will carefully readjusted himself so he could stroke Hannibal's hair. “I didn’t understand what I was doing,” he whispered, placing a kiss atop Hannibal’s head, much as he had done in the dream. “I shouldn’t have used her against you like that, I’m sorry.”

Will still had his cheek pressed against the top of Hannibal’s head when Alana and Abigail arrived, the former blushing, while the latter gave Will a thumbs up upon seeing them in such close proximity. Alana dimmed the lights in the room, and whispered a hello to Will before she and Abigail settled down to begin a game of cards, unable to stop herself from stealing periodic glances at the two of them.

It was a testament to Hannibal’s exhaustion that he remained motionless as Will carefully extracted himself from the bed, his need to urinate winning out over his desire not to disturb his bedmate. As tempting as returning to the warmth of the bed would have been, after taking care of necessary bodily functions, Will opted to join the card game instead.

“Thanks for caring enough to yell at me,” he said softly, sneaking a look at Abigail.

“That’s what family is for,” she told him, and Will surprised them both by pulling her into as close of an embrace as either of them could manage in their current conditions, holding on tightly for quite some time.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will could actually feel the moment when Hannibal awoke; it reminded him of when the power returned after an outage, how you were instantly aware of the low grade hum of electricity right as things suddenly came back to life. Will’s attention focused on the bed, card game forgotten, watching Hannibal’s unnatural stillness as he took in his surroundings, as if trying to ascertain if it was safe to reveal that he was no longer asleep.

Hannibal pushed himself up on his elbows, looking beautifully disheveled. “How long?” he asked, accent thick with sleep.

It took Will a moment to swallow past the lump in his throat, and answer. “Only about three hours. You should get more.”

“Hm,” was the only response as Hannibal extracted himself from the bed. It was strange, the moments in which Will realized how very good Hannibal was at making himself appear somehow smaller, less imposing than he actually was. He was too tired to hide now, though, and looked oddly formidable as he stretched, working the kinks out of his neck and back, shirt tight across his chest and shoulders as he did so. Will could only blink, and watch as Hannibal sauntered into the bathroom, breaking the spell with the closing of the door.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Alana said, sharing a glance with Abigail.

“Jamais vu,” Will whispered, shrugging and trying to play off the moment.

When Hannibal emerged from the bathroom, it was clear he’d splashed cold water on his face. His hair was damp, and he looked more alert, more himself, less the animal thing that occasionally looked out from behind his eyes. After his dream, after all of the dreams, Will was becoming convinced it wasn’t some anomaly, but was ever present, that the Hannibal everyone else saw was simply a mask he wore to protect himself, that the _otherness_ he sometimes saw was the real Hannibal. It was worrisome, to say the least.

As Hannibal crossed the space between them, Will’s thoughts scattered like animals through the underbrush upon hearing the crack of a rifle. His hands were still cool, and slightly damp, as he cupped Will’s face in order to bring their mouths together, the kiss as unexpected as it was welcome. There was nothing chaste or casual about the kiss, Hannibal licking his way into Will’s mouth, stealing his soft noise of surprise. When Hannibal finally pulled away, sucking on Will’s lower lip as he did so, Will found himself grinning wolfishly.

“Would anyone care for coffee?” Hannibal asked, as if nothing had happened.

“I’ll have apple juice,” Abigail answered, not missing a beat. Alana was wide eyed, pink in the cheeks, entirely nonplussed, and suddenly found herself extremely interested in the cards she was holding. Abigail noticed and snickered as she discarded. “That’s nothing, I’ve had to listen to them having sex.”

Will wrapped an arm around himself, laughter and pain warring with each other. “Please, don’t make me laugh,” he begged, tears in his eyes.

If Alana had been pink before, she was bright red, now. “How about _we_ go get the coffee and juice,” she suggested, fixing Abigail with a pointed stare. The young woman rolled her eyes, but allowed Alana to help her up from the chair she was occupying.

“That uncomfortable looking window seat over there actually folds out into a bed,” Will informed Hannibal, as the ladies were leaving. Hannibal glanced in the general direction as he fished around in his jacket, pulling out his phone. He set it down a moment later. “No news is good news?”

Hannibal slid into the chair closest to Will. “Quiet for now, but not for much longer, I think.”

“All the more reason to sleep while you can,” Will pointed out. Whatever alertness the cold water had inspired was already fading away, leaving Hannibal slightly drunk looking. Will watched him rub the palms of his hands into his red rimmed eyes, the long line of this throat exposed as he tipped his head back, and groaned. “Seriously, at this rate, if Jack called, you’d wind up crashing your car before getting anywhere.”

“Jack has insisted upon an ever changing retinue of FBI, or local police protection. They’ve been playing chauffeur.”

Will reached over, placed a hand on Hannibal’s thigh, frowning, and the doctor finally made eye contact with him. “I had a sister once,” Will heard in his head for what felt like the thousandth time, a sick little knot forming in his stomach. The edges of hurt his question had caused were still visible, mixed right in with the raw otherness that had been bleeding through Hannibal’s eyes. He wanted to apologize all over again, but had the feeling it was best to leave things as they were.

“How do you say ‘I love you’ in Lithuanian?” Will asked, chewing on his lower lip.

Hannibal titled his head slightly, continuing his unblinking stare, eyes somewhat narrowed in suspicion. Will found himself wondering if he would get an answer or not, but then Hannibal licked his lips and said, “Aš tave myliu.”

It sounded nothing like what the child versions of Hannibal and Mischa had been speaking in the dream, which was unsurprising, albeit slightly disappointing. Will was pretty sure he’d never heard anyone speaking Lithuanian before, and although he’d heard Hannibal speak French, Italian, and even Russian, this was the first time he’d actually heard him speaking in his native tongue. As in the dream, though, there was something _right_ about the way his mouth formed the words, something that made Will’s heart beat faster.

He tried to repeat the words back to Hannibal, who smiled and corrected him several times before Will finally managed a passable pronunciation. “Aš tave myliu.”

“Very good,” Hannibal said, lips still curled into the ghost of a smile. He covered the distance between them, pressing his mouth to Will’s once again for a slow, tender kiss. Will pulled him closer still, kissed the words against the curve of Hannibal’s lips, stroking his stubbled cheek, one hand wrapped around the back of Hannibal’s neck to keep him close.

Will pressed his forehead against Hannibal’s. “How do I say, ‘go back to sleep’?”

When Hannibal laughed, it was a low rumble, hardly audible, but Will could feel his body shaking. Hannibal never answered the question, but did as was asked of him, and by the time Abigail and Alana returned, he was once again sleeping soundly.

Will split his attention between the card game, Hannibal’s sleeping form, and the man’s cell phone, where it rested on the table. As anxious as he was for things to come to an end, for this case to be over once and for all, the longer the phone was silent, the more the dread grew. Hours later, when the screen came to life, Jack Crawford’s name displayed clearly for everyone to see, Will was tempted to let it go to voicemail. Instead, he answered the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops, I couldn't resist posting this now. I'd love to say it's all hearts and flowers from here on out, but I like you all too much to lie to you. This is a little oasis of good feelings. Okay, the next chapter is actually a lot of fun, but let's still bask in lil' Hannibal and Mischa for a moment, shall we? Ahh... refreshing.
> 
> I apologize, because clearly I have a kink surrounding Alana having her nose rubbed in Hannibal and Will's relationship. It's just too good to resist. I'm a jerk. 
> 
> Also, Jacob is very much not amused. There will be blood. :(
> 
> As always, thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing in the adventure! <3


	23. A Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal makes a new friend.

“ _Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake_.”—Napoleon Bonaparte

 

This time around, Will hadn’t exhibited nearly the same enthusiasm for Hannibal focusing his attention on the case. Instead of encouraging him to leave, at the last possible moment he’d gone so far as to grab Hannibal’s wrist to hold him back, looking up at him, eyes bright with fear and concern. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. With a tight, wavering smile, Will had reluctantly relinquished his grip, allowing Hannibal to slip from the hospital room in order to make his way to the parking garage. If he closed his eyes, Hannibal could summon the phantom sensation of Will’s desperate fingers digging into his skin.

At approximately five o’clock that morning a woman on her way to work came across the rest of what Jack had now confirmed was Gary Buttram, the pieces having been scattered along the sidewalk as if someone had used his body parts like a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to the Helping Hand Mission. Crawford had mentioned signs of torture being evident, and Hannibal was curious as to what their killer’s technique might have been. He was still wrapped up in these  pleasant, bloody thoughts when the elevator doors opened, revealing the parking garage.

Hannibal paused, waiting almost until the doors closed again before exiting the elevator. There was a man approaching him, and he wasn’t so tired as to not notice how hard the individual was working to make his stride and posture seem as relaxed and nonthreatening as possible. Hannibal felt the little hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. Curious.

“Doctor Lecter?” the stranger called. That he knew Hannibal’s name was of little reassurance, but he immediately followed up with, “I’m Officer Anderson, Agent Crawford asked me to escort you to a crime scene.”

“May I see some identification, please?” He watched as the man pulled out his badge, producing it for Hannibal’s inspection. Samuel Anderson. Dressed in plainclothes, clean cut, photo matched that on the ID, shoulder holster visible. He was grinning affably, a sort of ‘aw shucks’ look on his face. Hannibal returned the identification, a soft smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Thank you.”

“Would you be more comfortable if we took your car, sir?” Anderson asked.

Hannibal conjured a different smile, the sort he wore to an art gallery, or a musical performance, allowing his posture to soften as he tucked his hands behind his back, the picture of foppish nonchalance. “Yes, of course, follow me.”

While he had invested little effort in imagining the actual physical appearance of the person they sought, he had to admit he was pleasantly surprised to find this young man to be so perfectly _right_ for the role. He was in his early twenties, shorter than Hannibal, not by much, perhaps only an inch or two, dressed neatly, and smelled faintly of vanilla. Anderson had an athletic build, not bulky by any means, but one got the sense that under the clothes he was all lean, whipcord muscle. His hair was a sort of sandy shade of blond, close cropped, tidy. Hannibal thought he had the look of a church boy about him, the sort of young man who holds doors open for women, or helps little old ladies cross the street. An open, trustworthy expression, paired with big green eyes, and Hannibal was sure the combination made people _want_ to like Samuel Anderson.

If he had been there, would Will have been able to tell? Hannibal, being what he was, had the advantage occasionally when it came to spotting a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Still, his Will was remarkably observant—present company excluded—capable of exquisite leaps of logic, and Hannibal was certain that, while he might not be able to explain why, Will would most definitely see this pretty thing for what he was. It takes one to know one, as the saying goes, and Anderson, while likely a real police officer, was also most definitely a wolf.

Hannibal licked his lips, keeping himself positioned so he was just ahead of Anderson, yet could still comfortably see him in his peripheral vision. He thought over his options as they walked, their footsteps echoing eerily through the empty garage. Hannibal doubted the attack would come right away, right out in the open. More likely his escort planned to wait until they were inside Hannibal’s car. It would be something designed to incapacitate him. The actual killing would need to take place elsewhere, someplace with room, and time for fun. Probably best to take the initiative, then.

“How long have you been a police officer?”

“Oh, about four years now,” Anderson answered smoothly, and Hannibal found he liked the sound of the man’s voice. It was low and gravelly, somewhat out of step with his youthful appearance, and he had just a hint of the rural in his accent. Hannibal imagined it would have sounded quite soothing coming through the phone, worming its way into the psyche of the people he had first comforted, then cajoled into self destruction.

Hannibal slowed his pace, turning slightly so as better to converse. They were almost to his car, now. “I hope you’re not squeamish. This killer we’re hunting can be very _sloppy_ at times,” he said with a wink.

Anderson’s smile was subtly stiffer this time, and didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, sir.”

“Call me Hannibal, I insist,” he said, extending his hand for Anderson to shake. There was the slightest hesitation, but it wasn’t until they actually touched that Anderson’s expression shifted, the false skin of affability sloughing off his face.

“How did you know?” he asked, his eyes wide as he squeezed back against the iron tightness of Hannibal’s grip. Understanding what was about to happen, he attempted to use the handshake to pull them together, possibly intending to follow through with a headbutt, but Hannibal had other plans. He yanked with all of his considerable strength, sending Anderson stumbling forward, slamming a knee up into the man’s chest as he did so.

They spun apart, Anderson recovering quickly, fists raised as he whirled to face Hannibal. He looked surprised, but pleased, a little sneer replacing the innocent farm boy smile of before. Hannibal’s nostrils flared as the smile slid off of his own face. He found it interesting that Anderson hadn’t gone for the gun yet. Hannibal thought him very kind, even if the young killer was unaware of the gift he was presenting the doctor with; it had been some time since he had last inflicted pain. A warm feeling uncoiling low in his belly, Hannibal allowed his arms to hang loose by his sides, watching, wanting Anderson to make the first move.

Samuel didn’t make him wait long, rushing at Hannibal and catching him around the waist. As they stumbled backwards, Hannibal’s elbow slammed down viciously between Anderson’s shoulder blades, once, twice, the man’s grip faltering as they crashed into a parked car, setting off the alarm. Hannibal grunted as the impact forced the air from his lungs, and Anderson pressed his advantage, pinning Hannibal against the trunk of the car with the weight of his body.

They struggled momentarily, Anderson grinding against him, Hannibal thinking idly that under different circumstances, and with Will playing the role of the aggressor, the situation would be enjoyable in an entirely different way. Anderson’s breathing was already heavy, and Hannibal could smell the adrenaline on him. They were close enough, in fact, that if he wanted to, Hannibal could steal a kiss. Instead, he brought his face closer to Anderson’s with teeth snapping, forcing the other man to back off in order to keep his nose.

Opponent momentarily off his guard, Hannibal shook him loose, brought his fist round hard, catching Anderson in the side of the head, his injured hand throbbing in protest as the cuts on his knuckles reopened. Anderson staggered, and it looked as if his legs might give out on him, but when Hannibal went to follow up with a knee to the face Anderson managed to block him at the last moment. He grabbed Hannibal’s leg, attempted to throw him off balance, but the doctor managed to get in a few quick jabs to the ribs anyway. Anderson shoved, and before he could regain his footing, Hannibal took an elbow to his face, hissing as his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. He was almost surprised to hear himself laugh, low and happy, as he ducked to avoid Anderson’s next punch, slamming his fist down hard right above his attacker’s knee. He tackled the officer, sending him flying into the bumper of a car before dancing back out of reach.

He had a moment to wipe at his face, smiling as he spat out a mouthful of blood. Anderson was watching him warily now, perhaps understanding he’d made a slight miscalculation. Hannibal waited to see the telltale movement that would broadcast Anderson’s intention to reach for the firearm, but instead he simply raised his fists once more, shaking his head as if to clear it. Hannibal was beginning to like this young man.

He sucked the blood from his teeth, feeling wonderfully alive and in the moment, so much so he had to remind himself that, as enjoyable as it was to revel in a bit of physical violence, it would be foolhardy to think himself invincible. Best to make this quick, not fall prey to his preference for long, drawn out affairs. He took the initiative this time, managing to catch his assailant squarely on the jaw, staggering him slightly before Anderson cried out in anger and retaliated with a flurry of surprisingly fast punches, several of which actually connected, the last cracking him on the side of the head hard enough to leave Hannibal’s ears ringing.

This time as they broke free from each other, Anderson went for the gun, only to have his arm grabbed, and viciously twisted the wrong way round. He cried out in surprise and pain as Hannibal bit down into the fleshiest part of his hand, drawing blood, causing the gun to fall to the ground with a great clatter. It was sublime, the taste of another’s blood flooding his mouth, and Hannibal had to remind himself that while he could explain away biting Anderson in the heat of battle, tearing loose and ingesting a substantial chunk of flesh might be a bit much for the FBI to accept.

Regret blossoming within his heart, Hannibal opened his jaws, using his grip on Anderson to send the man spinning face first into one of the garage’s many columns. Hannibal kicked the gun under a nearby car as he used the leverage of his hold on Anderson’s arm to keep him momentarily pinned in place. Anderson snarled, leaving flecks of blood on the column as he exhaled, eyes screwed up in pain, and anger. He wasn’t ready to concede, though, and using a leg and his free arm, he managed to push back from the column, forcing Hannibal off of him, yelling as he spun, fists flailing at the doctor.

Hannibal ducked back quickly, but still took a kick to the solar plexus, grunting at the impact. He began backing off, staying out of reach of Anderson’s fists and feet, leading them closer to his car. Anderson lunged, and Hannibal had to move quickly to use his forearms to block his opponent. The next time he swung, Hannibal managed to catch Anderson’s fist, holding it in place even as the man used his left hand to jab viciously at Hannibal’s exposed side. As if the pain fueled him, Hannibal wasted no time attempting to block the blows, grunting softly as they connected. Instead, with his free hand he grabbed Anderson by the throat, fingers vice like, although he was careful not to actually crush the other man’s windpipe. Samuel stopped punching, and shifted his focus to desperately trying to pry his opponent’s hand free, and Hannibal used that moment to sweep his attacker’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

Anderson’s head cracked against the concrete flooring as he landed, and his eyes seemed to lose focus. They widened, and he cried out loudly in pain when Hannibal brutally slammed his knees down hard onto Anderson’s shoulders, pinning him in place. Wearing a grim smile, Hannibal brought his fist down into Anderson’s face, breaking his nose in the process. There was a satisfying wet, meaty sound as it connected. It took all of his considerable self control to keep himself from smashing the man’s head open against the floor of the garage, but he hadn’t forgotten his promise to Will.

While his opponent was still stunned, Hannibal fished a hand into his pocket, pulling out the keyfob for his car. With a little chirp, he unlocked the trunk before hauling Anderson back up onto his feet, unable to resist slamming his fist into the man’s side one last time, making a soft noise of pleasure as he felt at least one of Anderson’s ribs break.

“This is why sending others to do your work is foolish,” Hannibal snarled as he manhandled Anderson into the trunk of his car, breathing heavily as he slammed the lid shut. There were muffled cries of protest, and loud banging could be heard as Anderson attempted to fight his way free of his new home.

Hannibal took a few moments to collect himself, adjusting his clothing and prodding the various places Anderson had managed to connect with his fists. Blackened eye, bruises, lacerations, possibly even a mild concussion. He would be uncomfortable for a while, but there had been no serious damage done. He fished into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell, and as he waited for Jack to answer, he went to find Anderson’s discarded firearm.

“Why aren’t you here yet?” Jack demanded by way of answering.

Hannibal licked his lips, tucking the gun into his pants so it rested snugly against the small of his back. He tried very hard, and failed, to keep the pleasure from his voice as he said, “I believe the Puppet Master is currently locked in the trunk of my car.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will wiped a shaking hand over his face, collecting the beads of sweat that had formed. After all the time spent in a hospital gown, normal clothes felt alien against his skin, the weight, the texture distracting, even in the face of what they were dealing with. It was taking a good bit of his concentration to stay on his feet, walking without the IV stand having been much harder than he’d anticipated.

He wasn’t sure how he felt, exactly, it was such a strange mélange of emotions. Relief was present, washing over him periodically as he thought of what could have, but did not, happen, but this was also closely followed by anger. The hard part was who to be angriest with; the person who had dared touch Hannibal, or the doctor himself for the way he had chosen to handle the attack.

Will had fucked Hannibal enough times to recognize the look of smug satisfaction he was currently wearing, even if everyone else seemed only to see what they wanted. What Will wanted was to be alone in a room with the man, grab him and shake him and ask, “Did you like it?” He would shove Hannibal up against a wall, shout in his face until he ran out of words, and then…

“Broken nose, broken ribs, concussion, soft tissue damage,” the attending was reading, finally looking up at Jack. “No signs of internal hemorrhaging. We’re still cleaning and disinfecting the bite wound, but then he’s all yours. I would like to state once more that due to the concussion, our preference is to keep him here overnight for observation.”

“I respect your opinion, but he’s still coming with us,” Jack answered, his expression making it clear there would be no further discussion on the matter. After signing some forms, he turned to face his companions, whistling as he eyed Hannibal with what could only be classified as suspicion mingled with respect. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, doctor.”

Hannibal dipped his head slightly, as if repentant, or embarrassed. “Tobias Budge’s attack was quite the eye opener. I thought it prudent to invest in self defense training.”

Will bit into his lower lip to keep himself from speaking up, amazed by the careful precision of Hannibal’s words. It wasn’t so much that he was lying as it was that he was allowing Jack to come to his own, inaccurate conclusions. No doubt, he _had_ taken self defense courses, but Will was certain that had been many, many years ago, and had nothing at all to do with Tobias Budge.

“Well, I’d say they came in handy.” Jack clapped Hannibal on the shoulder, a relieved, throaty laugh escaping. “Good work, Doctor Lecter.”

“It was more luck than anything else,” Hannibal answered easily, turning to face Will.

It just wasn’t fair, Will decided, struggling not to begin shouting. Hannibal was a mess, a beautiful, dangerous mess. He was cleaned up as much as was possible, but his shirt was sticking to him, still damp with sweat and blood, and most of the blood wasn’t his. Although the bruises were going to be spectacular when they’d fully formed, the only serious injury Hannibal had sustained was a mild concussion. They’d bandaged the knuckles of his right hand, which was in worse shape than the left, due to whatever inanimate object he’d previously punched while out of Will’s sight.

If it had been just the injuries, Will suspected he’d be less conflicted, but it was more than that. It was the insouciance, the butter wouldn’t melt smile Hannibal was having trouble keeping off of his face, and the hooded, bedroom eyes he was watching Will with. The way his clothes were rumpled, and clinging to him obscenely. There was something in the way he was holding his body, some release that had taken place. It had nothing to do with sex, but everything to do with Hannibal, and violence, and something this other man had given him that Will could not. It was stupid, he knew Hannibal had been in a fight for his life, but for some inexplicable reason it left Will feeling like he’d been cheated on.

“I’m not taking any chances here,” Jack interrupted, bringing Will back into the moment. “For all we know this is another one of the puppets.”

“What do you propose?” Hannibal asked, although his eyes remained fixed on Will’s own.

“Will, you’re serious about leaving against doctor’s orders?”

Even though his legs were shaking under him, even though he knew it was a bad idea, he had no intention of backing down from the decision, especially considering the way it made Hannibal frown. Will wanted to laugh at himself. He was angry that Hannibal had been hurt, could admit now that he was inappropriately jealous. While he was relieved Hannibal was okay, he was so irritated by how helpless the attack made him feel that he wanted to punish his lover. And the best way to punish Hannibal at the moment was to leave the hospital ahead of schedule.

“Absolutely.” There was the expected tightening around the mouth, the narrowing of the eyes, and Will smiled wolfishly in response. He raised his eyebrows at Hannibal, as if to say, “how about that?”

“As far as the world is concerned, you’re still in the hospital,” Jack explained, and Will hated that he had to break eye contact with Hannibal in order to give Crawford his full attention. “I’m going to place an agent in your bed, and we’re going to see if anyone stops by to pay you a little visit.”

Hannibal and Will exchanged glances, coming to the same conclusion, although it was Hannibal who spoke first. “I expect this plan requires Abigail and Alana to continue their bedside vigil?”

Jack nodded as he pulled out his cell phone. “Absolutely. This needs to be convincing. We’re keeping a guard in place, and the agent in the bed will be armed. They won’t be in any real danger.”

“We’re using them as bait?” Will asked, jaw tight. “You do remember Abigail is pregnant, right?”

“We’re using the idea of _you_ as bait,” Jack pointed out. “So get out of sight. I don’t want him seeing you until I’m ready for you to be seen.” He’d obviously made up his mind, was already walking away from them, effectively ending the conversation.

“What if they refuse to cooperate?” Will called after him.

Jack’s eyes were dark, piercing, and Will hated him in that moment. “They don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“I do not like this plan,” Will said through clenched teeth. He shivered as Hannibal slid a hand under his shirt in order to place it at the small of his back, his thumb stroking against Will’s skin. “And I’m not happy with you, either.” Hannibal’s smile was soft, almost bashful, his eyes warm and affectionate. It was infuriating. “He had a gun, Hannibal!”

“Precisely why I disarmed him.”

Will growled in frustration. In his current state, he couldn’t achieve, let alone maintain, an erection to save his life, yet all he could think of was ripping the stained clothing from Hannibal’s body, covering him with bruising kisses, with bite marks, of spreading him across one of the hospital beds, and fucking him senseless. It was as if some animal part of his brain was chanting, “mine, mine, mine, someone else touched you, but you’re _mine_.”

“You could have been killed.”

“Was I to allow myself to be overpowered so you could come rescue me?”

“Asshole,” Will spat, shaking his head, unable to hold back his puff of laughter. Hannibal was the picture of innocence when Will finally met his eyes. “Yes. That’s exactly what should have happened.”

“I felt the same,” Hannibal confessed, and of course he would have.

Will exhaled shakily, letting go of his anger at the same time. At least Hannibal hadn’t needed surgery after his encounter. “Do you think Jack would notice if I went in and hit this guy a few more times?”

Hannibal’s voice was an intimate rumble, and his hand slid lower to ghost over the curve of Will’s ass. “I think he might. Best to return to your room until he’s ready for us.”

Will shifted closer, grabbing Hannibal by the arm, allowing him to support some of his weight as they began to walk back. “I’d let you watch,” he said after a few moments, and beside him Hannibal laughed, low, and joyous. It made Will’s hair stand on end for all the wrong reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie... I've been looking forward to this chapter for AGES!! It's been hanging out in my story timeline, mocking me, and then with the season 2 opening fight showing up on the internet, it was like torture to not rush things and get Hannibal all sticky, and sweaty, and violent. He's just too attractive while fighting, I can't help myself! *hangs head in shame*
> 
> Also, thanks for all the love happening over at [Too Much Information](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1345945)!


	24. A Single Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop! Have you experienced "[Mistakes Not Repeated](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1362844)" by 9_of_Clubs?! If, like me, you wished Will wasn't currently so carved up as to not be in a position to follow through on his desires re: teaching IgotFightLaid!Hannibal a little something-something, you need to take a moment. Did you? OK, good.
> 
> And now onto your regularly scheduled episode of Not to Die of the Truth...

“ _All great events hang by a single thread. The clever man takes advantage of everything, neglects nothing that may give him some added opportunity; the less clever man, by neglecting one thing, sometimes misses everything_.”—Napoleon Bonaparte

 

Hannibal was feeling decidedly chipper. The encounter with Anderson had been thoroughly enjoyable, and had also provided him with an excuse to return home, shower, and reassemble himself as he saw fit. Shaving had been painful due to his injuries, but enjoyable nonetheless. Will would certainly protest upon seeing him, but Hannibal didn’t particularly care. If Will had decided he was well enough to discharge himself from the hospital against medical advice, Hannibal had no intention of continuing to indulge him. He took his time dressing, feeling more relaxed as each layer was smoothed into place.

By the time he had finished, Jack was calling, ready with the search warrant for Anderson’s home, and insistent upon Hannibal’s attendance while it was executed. Currently, he was unwilling to let their suspect out of his sight, as if he might somehow disappear in a puff of smoke.

Hannibal was pleasantly surprised by the pristine, minimalist nature of Samuel Anderson’s home. As soon as he was given permission to enter, he realized the futility of the endeavor; they would find no trophies, no chemiluminescence after the application of luminol, and he suspected the exploration of Anderson’s computer would be equally fruitless. It was all smooth, polished surfaces, precise angles, crisp hospital corners, and every last object was meticulously arranged in a way that made Hannibal’s heart ache with appreciative longing.

Grateful for the forensic team temporarily hanging back in order to give him a clearer, holistic impression of his surroundings, Hannibal moved from object to object, scrutinizing, pondering the significance of each in turn. Some were unambiguous in their purpose (a photograph taken upon graduating from the police academy), while others were decidedly less transparent (an intricately detailed 1/8th scale model of a barn).

From living room, to bedroom, to bathroom, to kitchen, Hannibal glided through Anderson’s home, finding himself increasingly delighted by what he encountered. No smudges, no hairs, no dust, nothing astray, nothing amiss, that familiar hint of vanilla hanging in the air. Hannibal was willing to bet that the forensics team failed to lift a single viable fingerprint from any of the surfaces.

Ultimately, he found himself standing in the kitchen, momentarily distracted by the contents of Anderson’s refrigerator; each item was grouped by type, then alphabetized within the group, and labeled to indicate when it had been added. Each food item was placed equidistant to its neighbor, as if on a grid. To Hannibal, it might as well have been pornography. He’d made so many depressing compromises since he, Will, and Abigail moved in together that simply keeping the dogs off of the furniture felt like a great accomplishment. Perhaps, when this had all been wrapped up, and if he was given the chance, he could renegotiate his areas of influence within the house.

“Would you mind photographing this?” Hannibal asked, gesturing to the refrigerator door after closing it. While he’d been given ample space to explore freely, Jack wasn’t taking any chances on a savvy lawyer suggesting evidence had been planted. Hannibal had been ghosted during his exploration by two agents, one of them going so far as to take video of the inspection, while the other took photographs.

Formalities sorted, Hannibal carefully removed a photograph of an old house from the door of the refrigerator, holding it aloft in his gloved hand. The photo was innocuous enough, but stood out due to the way it had been displayed. Crooked, held in place by a piece of scotch tape, of all things. Samuel Anderson would not have placed it there to begin with, and even if he had, it would have been done with precision, and care. Someone had specifically left it to be found. They might as well have set up flares to catch his attention. An address was scrawled on the back of the photograph, the handwriting unlike the examples he had encountered elsewhere; Samuel printed exclusively, and in the style of architectural lettering. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Hey there. Find anything good?” Beverly asked, sidling up to Hannibal and peering at the photo.

“Perhaps. A photo with an address on the back.” He slid the photograph into the evidence bag Beverly provided, allowing her the honors of sealing it shut. “Agent Crawford will want to obtain an additional search warrant.”

“Great. Maybe there’ll be something for me to actually collect at the next place. This is crazy, you could make computer processors in here.” Hannibal made a happy little humming noise by way of response, and Beverly laughed and shook her head. “Just so you know, Will would be crushed if you dumped him for a serial killer’s apartment.”

“At this point, we can’t be certain what his involvement is,” Hannibal pointed out. “Our crime scenes have been far from tidy.”

“They’ve also been surprisingly short on good forensic evidence for such untidy crime scenes,” she countered with an arched eyebrow. “Maybe killing is the only time he feels safe being messy. This guy’s piqued your curiosity, hasn’t he?”

“Has he not piqued yours?” Hannibal countered.

Their conversation was interrupted by the vibration of Hannibal’s phone. He answered after excusing himself. Will didn’t give him a chance to speak, simply opening with a barrage of words. “This guy has been sleeping like a baby since Jack dumped him in the interrogation room. He’s categorically guilty of something.”

“Or concussed.” Will made an exasperated noise, which made Hannibal smile, even if it shouldn’t have. “I assume you’re calling out of impatience?”

“Actually, we’ve found his name on more than one of our crisis intervention and support group lists, along with a few other ‘Andersons’ with Biblical first names: Isaac, Abram, Jacob. Surprise, surprise, they never appear on the same lists. He’s using multiple identities. We’ve got photos out to see if anyone at Helping Hand or the Counseling Center recognize him. What’s his place like?”

“Bewitching” Hannibal looked around longingly once more before continuing. “I’ll send photos in a moment.”

There was a pause, during which Hannibal could hear Will swearing under his breath. “Perfect. So it’s forensically worthless?”

“Not quite. Someone else was here, and left an address for us.”

“Don’t put that in writing anywhere. He’d love for us to hand him some probable deniability. If it wasn’t planted for precisely that purpose, then he’s leading us into a trap. Another one of his little games.”

Hannibal clenched his jaw, not particularly appreciative of Will’s dismissal of his professional opinion. Jack was excessively eager to have the case wrapped up, and wasn’t inclined to consider they might not have the actual Puppet Master in custody. There was no denying that the circumstantial evidence was piling up. Will’s guesses were better than most, and it would have been in keeping with what they’d experienced so far, but Hannibal was still surprised to hear him so firmly in Jack’s camp, so quick to brush aside Hannibal’s impressions.

There was no point in arguing over the phone. He suspected Will’s physical condition was as much to blame as anything. The man should still be in the hospital, not propped up in an uncomfortable chair, watching Anderson sleep in the interrogation room. His voice was laced with pain, and he probably hadn’t bothered to eat or drink anything since leaving the hospital.

“Have you spoken with Alana, or Abigail?”

There was another noise of frustration. “They’re fine. Alana wasn’t thrilled, but apparently my body double put her at ease. I still hate this plan, but at least they’re safe. I made Jack add another guard at the door, so they’re up to three now.”

“Don’t allow Agent Crawford to interrogate Officer Anderson until we’ve searched the second residence. I suspect his patience will pay off in that regard.”

“I’ll try, but he isn’t exactly listening to me,” Will answered. Hannibal could hear the weight of exhaustion in Will’s voice, and found himself frowning in response. “Send the pictures, and let me know when you’re executing the second search warrant. Hannibal?”

“Yes?”

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I always am.”

“Except when you’re not. Send the photos.” And with that, he hung up. Hannibal frowned down at his phone as he did as was asked of him.

“Hey! Is this the guy who attacked you?” Beverly was standing by the shelves, pointing to the police academy graduation photo.

“It is.”

Beverly’s eyes were wide with excitement. “You’re going to want to call Will back. This is the police officer who found the body of Lisa Yates!”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will’s hands were shaking so badly that it took several tries before he could manage to get the pills in his mouth. His situation wasn’t helped by the carbonation of the soda, the way it tickled his nose almost resulting in him being unable to swallow the medicine. Getting everything down felt like a victory, which was incredibly depressing. The sugar and caffeine would help a little, at least. He’d also managed to choke down some crackers from the vending machine, not because he was hungry, but because he knew Hannibal would ask if he had bothered to take the pills with food as per the instructions.

He was feeling bad enough that if asked at that moment, he would be willing to admit he’d made a mistake checking himself out of the hospital. He’d spent a good ten minutes staring at his reflection after his most recent trip to the bathroom, wondering when he’d become so gaunt, so obviously broken. Distraction had put him off schedule, and now he would have to wait for the painkillers to kick in.

The interview with Officer Samuel Anderson hadn’t helped the situation. Jack hadn’t listened when asked to hold off, and really, Will didn’t blame him. He hadn’t been particularly convincing with his argument, considering he was as anxious as Jack was to hear what Anderson had to say for himself. Unfortunately, it became clear almost immediately that talking wasn’t going to get them anywhere, and the longer the conversation went on, the more concerned Will became.

“I have no intention of pressing charges, sir,” Samuel said, taking a careful sip of his water. “I greatly admire the work done by the FBI, and all your people. I’m sure Dr. Lecter was under a lot of stress when he attacked me. Hunting killers? I can’t even imagine.”

The problem, Will realized almost immediately, was that Samuel was affable, sympathetic. If they didn’t find irrefutable evidence connecting him to the murders, attempting to prosecute would be a waste of time. The photos of a bruised and battered Anderson would be damning enough, but part of the fight had been within sight of the garage’s surveillance cameras. Hannibal could testify all he liked about his gut instincts, but to an outside observer it appeared Samuel had gone to shake his hand, and then been violently assaulted for his trouble. Any lawyer worth his salt would blow them out of the water, leaving Anderson to benefit from Double Jeopardy.

“I mean, that’s why I waited so long to pull out my firearm, sir, I was trying to explain I was on his side, and, well,” and here Samuel managed to look both repentant and proud, “I’ve never had to use my weapon in the line of duty before.”

Once he was in a suit, cleaned up, with his bashful smiles, and innocent eyes, the jury would love him. So he went to support groups under a false name sometimes, big deal. It was supposed to be anonymous, but he was a police officer, and grew concerned that his colleagues would lose faith in him if they found out. Sure, he found that woman’s body, in fact, that was the very reason he was going to these groups. It was why he had volunteered to trade places with the officer originally assigned to protect Hannibal.

“I know in your line of work this is commonplace, but I’ve never found a dead body before. We’ve got our share of violence, sure, but in my neighborhood I mostly get to spend my time helping tourists, checking in on our local businesses, or dealing with petty theft. I’m not ashamed to admit finding her stuck with me. If there was any way I could help her killer be caught, well… I thought I might sleep a bit better at night, is all.”

No one at the precinct had a bad word to say about Anderson. His record was clean as a whistle, albeit less than impressing. According to his partner, Samuel’s biggest fault was lack of ambition. He was happy where he was, unconcerned with the politics of rank within the department. Too quick to volunteer for the duties no one else wanted, always willing to help out a fellow officer, on time, respectful. It was a nightmare.

“What do you think?”

Will’s jaw was tight as he gave a little shake of the head. “I think,” he said, carefully enunciating his words in an attempt to sound more in control than he was feeling, “that we shouldn’t have spoken to him.”

Crawford eyed him critically. “But is he our guy?”

On the other side of the glass, Anderson winced as he took another sip of water. “He’s our guy,” Will finally answered before risking a quick peek into Jack’s eyes. “We just can’t prove it yet, and he knows it. He won’t push for release because we’re making him look like the victim the longer we keep him here.”

“He doesn’t leave until I’m ready for him to leave.”

Will shivered as a bead of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades. “Just… stop talking to him until we have some leverage. Maybe even after. A lawyer can claim he was concussed and not in his right mind, if he decides to cooperate. Any luck with the search warrant?”

Jack worked at a kink in his neck. “It should only be another hour or so.” They were quiet for a moment, before Jack placed a large, warm hand on Will’s shoulder. “The chairs in my office are more comfortable than in here. And if you fall asleep, I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

Will was too tired to argue, which is how, ten minutes later, he found himself in a row boat with Samuel Anderson.

“It’s nice out here,” Anderson said, and Will glared at him.

“It would be nicer if I was alone.”

Samuel ducked his head and smiled. Will closed his eyes and ground his teeth in frustration. A perfectly lovely afternoon, ruined by company. The gentle rocking of the boat was soothing beyond measure, the air had just the right amount of crispness to it, the sun warmed his face; if he was alone, he’d be able to sleep the day away.

Anderson began whistling, and Will’s eyes snapped open. He liked the man better when he was bruised, and battered. “I’m glad Hannibal broke your nose.”

There was that smile again. “It’ll give my face character.” He leaned down and pulled a beer out of a cooler they apparently had with them, squinting up into the sun as he cracked it open. “You’re only annoyed because you liked it just a bit too much, watching your man take me down. We both know, deep down, that it turned you on, the way I brought him to life. Is that the first time you’ve really _seen_ him?”

“Shut up.”

“He was savage, wasn’t he?” Samuel stretched out in the boat as if to show off his lean body. He ran a hand down his chest, as if smoothing his clothes into place, ultimately adjusting the telltale bulge in his pants with a wink aimed in Will’s direction. “You know, I’ve seen people get into fights, even people with self defense training, and it’s usually an awkward tumble. Him though?” He shook his head and licked his lips in a way eerily reminiscent of Hannibal. “He’s hurt people before. He’s good at it. Hell, he likes it. So, what do you think… how many people has he killed? One? Two? Ten?”

Will sat up, causing the boat to rock violently, and Anderson just laughed around his can of beer, eyes bright with mischief. “Don’t talk about him.”

“Touchy, touchy.” He glanced around as if to make sure they weren’t going to be overheard. “You do know I’m just you, right? So really, you’re yelling at your own subconscious.” Will gawped at him, then knocked the beer out of Anderson’s hand. “Well, that was childish.”

It was hard to disagree with the accusation, but Will still felt vindicated as he watched Anderson fussing with his now beer soaked clothing. “I don’t want to talk about Hannibal with you.”

Samuel’s eyes were far too pretty. “Mr. Graham, sir, I’m not your enemy, here. We both know it’s better if you prepare yourself for the worst. Maybe we can come to some compromises, you and me, get out ahead of this mess.”

Will wanted to grab another beer, throw the can at Anderson’s head. The fact that it was really himself he wanted to attack wasn’t lost on Will, but knowing didn’t help him any. The urge to smash in Samuel’s face was overwhelming. “What sort of compromises?” he finally spat.

“Well, that’s really up to you, isn’t it?” Samuel answered smoothly, a shy smile in place. “I know you’re awfully fond of Dr. Lecter.” Anderson shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled sympathetically. “Realistically, though, you ought to start putting some lines in the sand. Decide how far you’re willing to compromise yourself.”

“If, and I mean if, Hannibal has killed anyone, I’m sure there’s a reason!”

Samuel looked like he felt sorry for Will. “My friend, we both know there’s _always_ a reason. You find and feel their reasons all the time. Shit, being bored is reason enough for some. Has it ever justified their actions for you? Made you any less disgusted?”

“I love him.”

“If you say so,” Samuel said, patting Will’s knee. “Hard to love someone you don’t really know, though, isn’t it?”

Will’s heart was racing so fast that he couldn’t help but grab his chest, as if that would help, somehow, stop the mad hammering that left him wanting to vomit. They were in a boat, he had nowhere to run, which is likely why he was in the boat in the first place. He didn’t want to have this conversation, didn’t want to hear what Anderson was saying, and most of all didn’t want to believe that he didn’t know Hannibal. Of _course_ he did. Everything important, anyway.

“I know he loves me,” he finally answered, which resulted in laughter from his companion. The boat started rocking, and Will grabbed the sides, momentarily panicked, until he came to a decision. “In fact, there are no lines between me and Hannibal.”

He grabbed one of the oars and used it to knock Samuel into the water, ignoring the man’s cries of protest, mildly surprised by how relieved it made him feel, to give in and lash out, even if only at himself, in the safety of his mind. When Anderson bobbed back to the surface, shouting something about Will having serious psychological problems, Will cracked him in the head, used the oar to push him back under the water. After a few minutes and still no sign of Anderson, he chucked both the oars into the water, stretched out, and finally slept.

“Will?” To find himself shivering awake in Jack’s climate controlled office. “Time to wake up. They’re going into the house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to 9_of_Clubs for the lovely gift fic! I feel so loved. :) 
> 
> Also... I'm so sorry to say this, but the next chapter is going to hurt. Time to plunge into a pit of angst, onto the pointy spikes of feels. It'll actually be up ahead of schedule! And speaking of hurt, I finally caught up with my Hannibal episodes. Couldn't hold out any longer. *weeping*
> 
> Also also, I'm kind of actually going to try to use my tumblr account, so you can find me thar. [finely-honed.tumblr.com](http://finely-honed.tumblr.com/).


	25. Pointed in One Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A line is drawn in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry x 5,306 (which might be the number of words in this chapter, excluding the beginning quote)

“ _Now I see it clearly. My whole life is pointed in one direction. I see that now. There never has been any choice for me._ ”—Travis Bickle, _Taxi Driver_

 

“It better be actual orange juice and not orange drink… Oh. Hi.” Abigail smiled reflexively, her hand fluttering to her chest in surprise as she stepped out of the bathroom. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps if they hadn’t been run ragged and overworked, someone might have wondered why it was that, upon entering the house depicted in the photograph found on Samuel’s refrigerator, Hannibal Lecter made a beeline for the basement. If challenged, an answer would have rolled effortlessly from his lips, but none was necessary. He sought out the basement for the simple reason that he still longed for his own long abandoned workspace.

Dismantling and sanitizing his workshop of flesh and bone had been painful, as well as painstakingly executed. Forensic and financial issues aside, in the end the timing had been the most difficult aspect to nail down. Will wasn’t aware of the basement’s existence, for obvious reasons, and the care required for the deconstruction necessitated long, uninterrupted hours of work. He had actually pushed it a bit close, finally convincing and then arranging for Will to speak at a conference out of town before his privacy could be ensured.

The process itself was surreal, as well as extraordinarily depressing. He had much preferred assembling the area, maintaining it, but most especially working within the space. Oddly, he had never given thought to its eventual deconstruction, always operating under the assumption the task would fall to someone else, likely an entire team of forensic specialists. The space was alive for him in the halls of his memory palace, sights and scents and sounds tucked safely away, allowing him to roll back time, relive the pleasant memories whenever he chose, but doing so always felt somewhat vulgar to Hannibal. He had never been one to particularly dwell on certain aspects of his victims after they had been used up, but then again, there had always been the promise of another, and another still, and so on, a neverending queue with which to amuse himself.

His hopes had been raised by what he had seen in Samuel’s home, a tantalizing promise that this young killer might yet have more delights in store for him. Disappointingly, Samuel’s basement was the polar opposite of Hannibal’s own. That unspeakable horrors had transpired within the confines of the squat, cluttered space was not in question, but it lacked the beauty and simplicity of Samuel’s home. It was not at all as he expected to find it.

Hannibal’s primary concern upon stepping into the space was clean up, and how it had been executed. Someone had certainly made an attempt, but it was halfhearted at best, almost as if they wanted to ensure the FBI would leave with evidence, without feeling it had been obtained too easily. The cleansers used were not the ones employed by Anderson in his apartment, and beneath them Hannibal could still smell the lingering stink of Gary Buttram, of his blood, sweat, and urine.

There were various cutting tools, these scrubbed a bit better than the floor and worktable had been, but they were strewn about haphazardly, some of them apparently absentmindedly tossed into the far corner of the room after having been cleansed. And yet, to Hannibal’s discerning eye, if you peeled back the layers of imposed chaos, you could see Anderson’s influence within the space, the most obvious example being the pegboard occupying one wall; at some point, this was where all of the tools had hung, organized by shape and purpose.

"Now this is more like it," Beverly said from somewhere behind him. "Bet you this place lights up like a Christmas tree when we spray it."

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sorry to startle you, I didn’t realize anyone was in here when I came in. The guards didn’t say,” and he gestured to the door behind him, looking embarrassed.

There was a man—a doctor, she thought, but possibly a nurse—standing near the bed with a clipboard full of papers. Something about the openness of his expression, the way his light brown hair was just long enough that he needed to tuck it behind his ears, and the little dimple she could see in one cheek as he smiled, made her heart beat a little faster. He was cute, almost in a familiar sort of way, and if Alana decided to pick that moment to walk back into the room and break the spell, Abigail was going to have to get physically violent with her.

He was keeping his voice low, which Abigail found to be odd, until he hooked a thumb in the direction of the bed occupied by a man who definitely wasn’t Will Graham. Pretending to be asleep had been the standard operating procedure since the body double arrived; he had called it playing possum, and Alana had laughed at this a little too loudly, in a completely desperate, “I’m not getting any younger and I totally want kids,” sort of way. Abigail had taken to teasing her whenever they were away from Agent Fisher. It was her new favorite way to amuse herself.

“Mr. Graham seems to be sleeping. I was just going to drop off the instructions for his at home physical therapy, along with my contact info, in case he has any questions. I’ll be out of your hair in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I can make sure he reads it when he wakes up,” she answered, playing along with the whispering. She wondered how you were supposed to look coquettish when all knocked up like she was. Of course Will couldn’t wait a little longer to get stabbed, so she could have given birth before this chance meeting took place, the jerk.

The smile grew on his face as he glanced her way, still scribbling down information, and she wanted to believe he was actually checking her out. “You’re the younger sister, right? I hope Mr. Graham is looking forward to being an uncle.”

“Not that young,” Abigail answered with a smile of her own. “And, actually, I think he’s terrified.”

This got her a soft laugh, one she liked the sound of. He spared another glance at the bed before shuffling the papers together, and taking a few steps closer. “Now that’s just silly. Babies are the best. Do you know what you’re having?”

That he liked kids was a plus. Things were looking up. “A girl, actually,” she answered.

If anything, his smile grew. “Congratulations. A daughter, that’s great. Boys are just too much of a handful,” he continued, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Not that I have any kids, mind you. I just think back to when I was a kid… well, you know how it is, you have a brother.”

Abigail looked at Agent Fisher, trying to pretend it was Will, hoping her smile looked fond. “Definitely troublemakers. What can you do, though?”

“Tell me about it. I have a brother, myself,” he said with a laugh, handing her the pile of papers. A moment later, they tumbled to the floor, and Abigail found herself having a strange sort of mini-fantasy as she watched them fall. They’d laugh over the scattered papers, maybe their fingers would brush as they tried to pick them back up, and he’d ignore the fact that she was the size of a house, and when he looked up and met her eyes, they’d magically fall in love. Hannibal would have fun planning a wedding, she thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal returned to the first floor, intent on exploring the rest of the house, Beverly close on his heels as he ascended. The agents he encountered were kind enough to make a path for him as he moved from room to room, a silent, frowning specter. Even if he had been inclined to doubt his own instincts, to defer to Will and his convictions regarding Samuel, it would have been nigh impossible to ignore the obvious, lingering impressions left behind in the house. The commingling of discord and harmony made it clear that Samuel had shared this place with another.

Having had them imposed upon himself, Hannibal recognized the signs of compromise when he saw them. Three kitchen cabinets were the property of Samuel, while the other three belonged to his companion. The contents of the refrigerator were equally divided, some food items even being doubled, such as the matching jars of strawberry jam; one pristine jar bore the familiar labeling system Samuel used in his apartment, while the other barely had the lid on straight, was sticky on the outside, and contained crumbs. There were only two chairs for the kitchen table, and you could have easily drawn a line down the center of said table to divide which person sat where, the signs painfully evident. The living room was much the same, with two plush chairs positioned around a television, each with their own table and lamp. It was almost comical.

What was less amusing was the evidence of Samuel’s partner’s hasty self-extraction. He couldn’t hide the fact that another had been there, but seemed intent upon removing any personalizing effects. There were spots on the walls where photos had once hung, drawers and shelves that seemed to have been rooted through, likely for incriminating evidence.

Brian Zeller suddenly appeared in the doorway, a wolfish grin on his face. “Dr. Lecter, you’re going to want to check this out.” He jerked his head toward the room he’d just exited before scurrying away, a decided spring in his step. Once he realized Hannibal was following him, he continued. “So, it looks like our boy wanted to record his magic moments for later.”

When Hannibal entered what would have traditionally been used as a dining room, he found Beverly and Jimmy excitedly hunched over a laptop that had been set up on one side of a large wooden table. It clearly belonged to Anderson. The other side of the table, while suspiciously empty, bore signs of having once hosted a similar set up.

Beverly glanced up at him, her eyes bright with excitement. “We’ve got him!”

Hannibal circled around in order to see the screen. They were watching video that had been taken in the basement. Based on the angle, the camera was mounted to one of the pipes, the shot lined up to showcase the table. In the video, Samuel Anderson was leaning over Lisa Yates, his face close to hers as if concerned over possibly missing a single moment of the light leaving her eyes as he choked her with an electrical cord.

“There are a few more videos,” Beverly murmured, her mouth pressed in a tight line of dismay as she witnessed the woman’s death. “This is the first we’ve watched.”

“Interesting. If you wouldn’t mind, roll the video back approximately twenty five seconds. Watch the right side of the screen.”

Beverly did as was asked, a moment later making a noise of surprise, replaying the portion of video once more. Zeller glanced at Hannibal, his eyes wide. “There was someone else down there with him.” The shoulder of another man was visible within the frame of video, captured as he momentarily stepped into the shot before gliding back out, as if aware that he had overstepped his bounds.

“If I’m not mistaken, you’ll find a second camera.” He gestured to the empty portion of the table, then back to the frozen portion of video. “Their relationship relied heavily upon carefully maintained boundaries.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Abigail stared down at the papers, mentally laughing at herself, wondering how her dream scenario was supposed to work if she couldn’t actually bend over, but before she could properly finish the thought there was something around her neck. Her eyes went wide with surprise, and her hands immediately skittered up to find some sort of plastic tubing had been looped around her throat. With a jerk, she was pulled up and back, felt the warmth of a strong, tensed body pressed against her own.

“Brothers,” the man hissed, tugging the makeshift garrote tighter. She wheezed, trying to get a word out, a sound, anything to get the attention of the guards. “You do your best, you give them everything, and it doesn’t even matter.”

He was keeping the garrote tight enough that Abigail couldn’t seem to make a sound, her entire world focused down on getting in a bit more air, and the words he was forcing into her ear. She tried to look around, find something she could knock over or kick, but the way he had her head tilted prevented her from seeing much of anything around her. She couldn’t understand why Agent Fisher hadn’t stopped playing possum—he had to hear what was happening.

“But no, all it takes is one pretty girl to fuck them, and they throw away a lifetime of work, of dedication,” he continued, shaking her a little. “They forget about family. Well, I’m sick of protecting him. He needs a reality check. And you? I think you should know, Ms. Hobbs, that this is _all your fault_. We had a good thing, a great thing, and you ruined it. You, and that fucking baby, ruined _everything_.”

That was the moment in which Abigail Hobbs realized that she was going to die. Not someday, not eventually. It was like a cold wave that washed over her, drowning out everything but her own thoughts, the pressure in her chest, the pounding of her heart and rushing of her blood, and worst of all, Mischa’s frantic kicking. It was as if the entirety of her own personal reality was violently torn from her consciousness, a swell of bittersweet understanding cracking her open so that every pretense was flushed away, leaving her raw, exposed, painfully finite.

Abigail understood a lot of things about herself in that moment, and part of what made the knowledge so very painful was that it could never be shared. She’d never have a chance to tell someone how strange it was to know you’re dying, and even if she had been able to, they’d lack all of the necessary context for the conversation to have any intrinsic value. You couldn’t make anyone understand, really and truly, could you? The _lastness_ defined these thoughts and feelings, set them outside of anything she’d ever experienced. You needed the brain and body in perfect, tragic harmony for this feeling, dumping chemicals into your system, slowing time and stretching it out like taffy, peeling away all the little lies you'd worked so hard to wrap yourself up in, thinking they made you safe.

If she could have shared her feelings, she’d have explained that there was disappointment, sadness, anger, overwhelming despair, but there was no fear. Dying felt oddly familiar, like looking up into the calm eyes of a stranger, as you bled out on your kitchen floor. Like looking at an ultrasound and trying to choke down the strange certainty that what you're seeing is all part of an elaborate hoax to trick you into thinking you're alive, you did it, you have a second chance, and you're changing and growing and you'll never let anyone hurt her the way you were hurt.

There was no begging, pleading, none of that. She hadn't the air to speak, but even in her mind there wasn't any of the _if you... then I'll..._ bargaining that happened in movies right before some hero walks in and saves you, so you can go on and try to live up to your promises. There couldn't be any of that, because the one person who could have saved her had already done so, once upon a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ascending to the second floor of the house, Hannibal found himself presented with several avenues of exploration. The bathroom contained little of interest, although evidence of Samuel’s proclivities were evident. Again, one could have drawn a line down the room, splitting it off into two halves.

Each of the large bedrooms connected to the shared bathroom. Hannibal opted for the right hand room first, knowing it would have been occupied by Samuel’s discordant partner. There was a left and right consistency at play in their division of space, a sort of natural rhythm to it all that spoke of deep intimacy. Long ingrained, familial. Hannibal had snapped a few photos during his time in the house, and now sent them to Will, curious as to what his observations might be. The wait wasn’t long. As he was wandering through the partner’s space, frowning at the obvious signs of a hasty exit, his pocket began to vibrate, and he answered Will’s call.

“He has an older brother,” Will said immediately, and Hannibal smiled in satisfaction.

“Yes.”

It was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, Will’s voice was thick with emotion. “ _Fuck_.”

Hannibal resisted the urge to gloat. “The brother appears to have vacated the premises, kindly leaving behind evidence of Samuel’s guilt for the FBI.”

“Jack is practically doing cartwheels over the discovery of the video,” Will muttered tensely. “We’re still missing something. Was he… but, no…”

Hannibal understood his participation at this stage was largely unnecessary, that Will was simply thinking out loud, and so he continued on into Samuel’s bedroom. It was arranged much as the bedroom in the apartment had been; even the linens appeared to match. Unlike his home, this room contained more photographs, but in each instance they had been defaced, torn or damaged in an attempt to remove another person from the historical record, the largest of which left Samuel standing with his arm around a burned out husk.

“They’re no longer sharing the same artistic vision,” Will was saying, sounding almost detached. “We’ve been seeing the conflict all along, chalked it up to the master / puppet dynamic, but it’s deeper. Samuel _changed_.”

A quick glance through the drawers—and here he had to pause, wait for the photographs to be taken before he disturbed any of the items—showed several different identifications, all with Biblical first names accompanied by the winsome smile of the man they knew as Samuel Anderson.

“Was excommunicated for his transgressions.”

Will made a soft sound of agreement. “He fell in love.” Will gave the words significant weight, made the act of falling in love sound sublime and dirty all at once, and Hannibal closed his eyes, felt it, thought of the endless hours spent between the two of them, tasting, learning each other. Hannibal wondered if he would ever have the chance to experience those sensations again, and in that moment his longing for Will was like a sinkhole opening spontaneously beneath him.

He lowered his voice, attempted to push the ache aside, wondered if Will was also thinking of lips on skin, of being torn apart and remade. “Love is dangerous.”

“Uncontrollable,” Will said by way of agreement, a raggedness to his voice. Hannibal could hear him swallow, thought of the bob of his Adam’s apple, the hollow at the base of this throat. “Unpardonable. He’ll want to... correct Samuel. Punish him. Show him.”

There was no closet in the room, but there was an armoire. Hannibal took a moment to admire the craftsmanship with which it had been made as his companions photographed it, before slowly opening the doors. Although he had been expecting something of value to be contained within, he was left momentarily surprised by what he was seeing.

“Have Jack pull Abigail and Alana from the hospital immediately.”

There was some noise on the other end of the line, as if Will had knocked something over. The hypnotic quality had left his voice, replaced with alarm. “What do you see?”

Hannibal’s eyes darted around the contents of the armoire. “A shrine,” he finally answered, stepping aside so the evidence within could be document. “Will, he has a shrine dedicated to Abigail.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

If she closed her eyes, she could see Hannibal’s face as it had been in that moment so long ago, and somehow that felt better. That felt right. As much as she loved him, she'd never been able to shake the certainty that Hannibal’s face would be the last she saw. That he had given her the gift of time, but not time indefinite. Time until _he_ decided there was no more time. If she was being perfectly honest—and, really, if you couldn't be honest with yourself while in the throes of death, then when could you be?—it was one of the reasons she'd gotten pregnant in the first place. Abigail always had her sinking suspicions about Hannibal, but it was safer to pretend. It was safer still to be interesting, to show him you had everything to lose by giving away the tiny glimpse of him you'd stolen, but everything to gain from silence. Then he was free to love you, in his own limited way. She knew there was only one person Hannibal truly loved, one death he would feel, just one person in all the world that he would have trouble hurting, and it certainly wasn't her. Knowing this hadn't changed her feelings about Hannibal though, and one item on her long list of regrets was never having a moment where they stood face to face and she said, "I know you're a monster, but I don't care. I love you anyway."

There were so many regrets, though, some of them so profound they were like chemical burns, eating away her psyche. She would never see her daughter, never hold her, or nurse her, or comb her hair, sing to her, watch her play and laugh and... that _was not fair_! She’d never thought much about fairness, but this? How much time would they have, after she died, to still be able to save Mischa? Was the man currently spitting venomous words against the side of her face going to cut her open and take the baby? Abigail might not be fearful for herself, but she was fearful for her daughter, wanted Mischa to have a chance at living. At least if Mischa was stolen, Hannibal and Will would never stop until they found her, which was about as much comfort as there was left in the world. It was too much to absorb, the loss of it all, even in this moment, and so she tried to think of other, safer regrets.

She never got to really and truly iron things out with Alana, tell her how much she enjoyed pretending they were sisters. She never got to go drinking with Beverly. She would never go fishing with Will again, something they'd only done once or twice before she'd gotten too big and awkward. He'd been so shy about it, so self conscious, and she had loved him so much for being brave enough to try. She was never going to pet the dogs again, feel their thick fur through her fingers, and it was sad to think they’d never understand what had happened to her, to know that she hadn’t willingly abandoned them. She’d _never_ leave, not if she didn’t have to.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal grabbed Beverly by the shoulders, managing to prevent her from being knocked down the stairs as they collided with each other. He ignored her startled expression, the words of protest as he forcibly set her aside, continued on his way. Hannibal heard the clatter of her heels as she ran after him, clearly understanding something was seriously wrong.

“What is it? What did you find?”

“Abigail is in danger,” Hannibal said, surprised by the depth of concern he heard in his own voice. If Beverly wished to believe it was solely for Abigail, all the better, but Hannibal’s thoughts were only of Mischa, trapped within the cage of Abigail’s body, vulnerable, in need of his protection.

“I’m coming with you,” he heard, and then Beverly was sliding into the passenger seat of his car, pulling out her cell phone. “Has Jack gotten hold of the guards?”

“I left that to Will,” Hannibal answered, peeling out, causing several police officers to scramble out of the way as he did so.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed incomprehensible to Abigail that in a moment or two, she would slip out of the world and into nothingness, and as a result never know or do so many things. She's done this before, sort of, and there had only been darkness waiting for her. She knew she wasn't going to some magical place where she would see her parents again, or watch her daughter become a woman from some disembodied state. For Abigail Hobbs, the story simply ended. She was yet another character removed from play, and she would cease to exist once the page was finally turned.

She struggled, fought as best she could, and as she felt Mischa kicking, thought of vengeance in the way one thinks of whether or not they should bring an umbrella with them on a cloudy day. Maybe Will would put a bullet in this man; she hoped he would, but there was no venom behind the wish. There was a strange detachment washing over her, easing away all of the other feelings, a disembodied euphoria where everything was glowing even as it faded to black around the edges, reminiscent of the psychedelic state Hannibal had placed her in a lifetime ago. The pinholes of the ceiling tiles seemed to swell and pulse and swirl and dance in a shifting pattern that appeared to connect everything in the universe together in the most comforting of ways, as if there was a plan. A point to it all.

Abigail thought of a young man, of their awkward fumbling, of the strange magic of being with him the one and only time they had been together, of knowing down in her bones immediately afterwards, _I'm going to be a mother_. Of how he had stroked her hair and told her she was beautiful and perfect and that she shouldn't think this was the end, because it was really a beginning.

_I’m going to become the man you deserve. Just you wait, I'm going to come sweep you off your feet one of these days, and then it's you and me against the world, Abigail._

She'd thought he was drunk, and never thought much past that, except in moments of extreme loneliness, when she wondered if he had meant it. She wondered if all that was happening was really because of her, because of Mischa, as her murderer had claimed.

 _If I had to die, I’m glad I gave you a name before I did_. Abigail’s arms hung limp at her sides, although she could no longer feel them. _I wanted to be your mother more than anything, Mischa. I lov..._

~~~~~~~~~~~

Alana groaned as she heard her cell phone ringing, stopping in the hallway, wondering how she was supposed to fish it out of her bag when she had a drink in each hand, and a bag of sandwiches stuffed under one arm. Even better, a nurse at a nearby station was giving her dirty looks.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing around. There was nowhere else to set things down, so she just headed for the station. “I just need to set these down for one minute,” she promised, trying to look as appreciative as possible as she freed up her hands. Of course, as soon as she’d managed to retrieve the phone, it had stopped ringing. The Missed Call notification popped up, but before she could call back Beverly, the phone was once again lighting up, ringing loudly.

“Ma'am, you’re not supposed to be making calls in here.”

“Hey Bev,” Alana said, holding a finger up to the nurse, mouthing another apology, trying to indicate she’d only be one moment. “Make it quick, I’m breaking rules here.”

“Is Abigail with you?” Beverly shouted into the phone, and Alana could hear honking, and then Beverly was cursing at someone.

“Are you okay?”

“Is she with you?” Beverly asked again, and something in her voice made Alana’s stomach drop. Without thinking, she began running back to the hospital room, ignoring the shouting nurse, the food and drinks long forgotten.

“I went to the cafeteria,” she said, trying desperately not to break an ankle while running on the slippery hospital floors in high heels. “The guards are with her.”

“Okay,” Beverly said, her voice steely. “Hannibal and I are on our way to the hospital. Go back to the room. You and Abi need to stay with the guards, but get out of that room.” Alana could hear Hannibal saying something in the background, then Beverly was back on the line. “They’re going to move you somewhere safer. We’ll find out where from Jack, and meet you there.”

“Okay,” she managed to huff out. Alana turned the corner, saw one of the guards standing outside of the room with his weapon drawn, his expression grim. He immediately swiveled in her direction, caught off guard by the movement, then raised his weapon so it was no longer pointing at her, motioning for her to approach.

Time seemed to slow down. Alana’s heart stopped, her arms fell limp at her sides, and distantly she was aware that she had dropped her phone. Somewhere far away, Beverly was calling her name, voice tinny, and distorted. Something was wrong, there was shouting coming from the room, there were people swarming out, and… “Oh my God,” she gasped, placing a hand against the wall to keep from falling. “Abigail!”

Abigail was on a stretcher, they were rushing her from the room. A spike of adrenaline seemed to course through her, and then Alana was running again, rushing to Abigail’s side, grabbing her hand as they tried to wheel her away. “Abigail? Sweetie?”

Someone took her by the shoulders, pulled her away, held her in place when she tried to go after the stretcher, to stay with Abigail. They were talking, but none of what they were saying made any sense. Alana surprised herself as she began shouting. “What are you talking about? She… I was just with her! I need to stay with her, she’s in danger! Where are you taking her?”

The nurse seemed unphased, continued on in her calm, reassuring tone of voice. “We need to perform an emergency C-section, to save the baby,” she repeated. “As her next of kin, I’ll need you to come with me.”

“Next of kin,” she whispered, feeling like her legs were about to give out on her. “She’s dead? Are you telling me Abigail’s _dead_?”

“We can’t stay here,” the guard interrupted, and Alana could hardly see him through her tears.

They were trying to take her somewhere, the nurse arguing for a moment, someone saying something about a crime scene, the hospital being locked down. Alana could only stare down the hall to where her phone rested on the floor. Like a zombie, she walked back to it, while the nurse and guard argued. The piece of plastic hardly made sense to her, but she knew enough to lift it up to her ear.

“Beverly?” she asked, her voice almost unrecognizable, choked with pain.

“Alana? Hannibal, she’s back! Are you guys okay? We’re almost there, about ten minutes away.”

“Bev… I…” Alana stopped, not even sure what she was supposed to say, how she was supposed to say it, none of it made sense, none of it felt real. The guard was motioning for her to move, seemed serious about it. Alana gripped the phone tightly, keeping it pressed to her ear as she walked towards him, but her eyes were on the nurse. “You have to make sure they save the baby”

“Alana?”

“I have to go now,” she said, feeling disconnected from her own words, from everything. “Abigail is dead. They’re trying to save Mischa. They need my help.”

Alana ended the call.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yes. If you are upset with me right now, I don’t blame you for the feeling. I share it. I love Abigail. I loved her in the show, and was crushed when she died, but I have to say, I straight up _fell in love_ with my own version. If you're also a writer, you know how it is. Characters, even the ones you've borrowed from others, become these living, breathing children in your mind. This chapter was so hard to write, and something I continued to attempt to weasel out of. At the beginning of the fic, I made mention of a writer’s block situation. Well… this is why. The versions of the characters that live in my brain and this universe make very specific demands of me.
> 
> The unfortunate reality is that I could find no path forward for these men, one in this universe where they remain together, with a child, with Will fully knowing what it is Hannibal is, without this having taken place. I spent almost three months trying to work it out, but it always came back to the same thing. Abigail living on borrowed time, being either the catalyst to send them spinning away from each other forever, or her being the only thing potentially to hold them together. I love and often feel sorry for Hannibal, but let's face it, he's done horrible, horrible things. AND he's not even sorry for them. He'd happily pick right back up if Will gave him the go ahead. But Will is also, deep down, not someone that love fixes everything for, and not going to laugh off being fed dead people. He's going to project himself into every last one of the crimes again, only this time knowing the killer wears his lover's face. *shudder*
> 
> Argh... Anyway, my whole point is, this was not done for shock value, or for a whim, or because of anything other than it had to happen. I hope you'll hang in there for the rest of the story, as well as the stories to follow. Meanwhile, here are tissues and cookies for everyone. I'll be in the corner, sniffling.


	26. Just Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal say goodbye to Abigail, and welcome Mischa into their family.

“ _I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it—to be fed so much love I couldn't take any more. Just once._ ”―Haruki Murakami, _Norwegian Wood_

 

Will was not stupid. He knew something was wrong as soon as he saw they were headed to the NICU. The problem was, he had no way of preparing himself for how _very wrong_ everything had gone, because Jack Crawford had been tightlipped the entire way to the hospital after confirming for Will that the guards were with Abigail and Alana.

When he entered the waiting room, he was in the process of deciding Abigail must have gone into labor prematurely, then unexpectedly found himself enveloped by Alana Bloom, all soft warmth and familiar perfume. He shuddered as he felt her trembling against him, the muscles in his jaw twitching, arms remaining at his sides, unresponsive. Her proximity was unwelcome, as was the wetness of her tears against his neck, a worldly concern attempting to distract him from Abigail, from the incomprehensibility of her appearance.

“What happened?” he asked, staring at her in confusion. Not even consciously aware of what he was doing, he forcibly extracted himself from Alana’s embrace, absently placing one hand on the side of her face in order to better push her away, ignoring her gasp of surprise and dismay.

Abigail shrugged her shoulders, glancing down at herself before looking back up at him in chagrin. He’d gotten so used to seeing her pregnant that he had forgotten how slim and temporary she had always appeared, as if a strong wind might carry her away. This was why she had needed Will and Hannibal as tethers, anchoring her, keeping her safe.

“We only get so many second chances.” Will just blinked at her, shook his head in confusion. “Remember what we talked about, okay? I know you’re afraid, but I don’t care. She’s going to need you. Both of you.”

“Will?”

He blinked, and then Abigail was gone. Hannibal was watching him, concern evident, but there was anger there as well. Hannibal’s entire body was rigid with it, and as if he couldn’t help himself, he glanced over Will’s shoulder to where Jack Crawford was. Will shook his head again, a little compulsive gesture of denial, turning sharply to find Jack standing with his head hung in grief, or shame, unwilling to meet Will’s eyes. He had known what awaited them, but had said nothing. Beside him, Beverly was holding Alana, her face tight with pain, their bodies shaking in unison as they wept. There was a feeling like getting suckerpunched, like having his body forget its automatic processes, leaving him without air in his lungs, without strength in his muscles. He turned to face Hannibal once again, and knew all that he needed to know.

“I want to see her,” he said, the words barely audible. He could feel the tears like distant things, wiped them away with the back of his hand, focused on breathing in, breathing out.

As he stared into Hannibal’s eyes, Will thought they were unlike anything he had ever seen in the man, in anyone; a bountiful emotional display, but equally alien in complexity, and inconsistency. There was genuine grief—Will wasn’t sure how he would have handled not finding any at all in Hannibal’s eyes—but it was almost as if he was using Will’s own feelings as a crutch, as if that was the only safe pathway to the sensation that was left open to Hannibal. To complicate things further, despite Hannibal’s obvious dismay over Will’s agony, in a sequestered corner of his mind Will understood the man was rapt. He was cataloging every nuance of expression, every telltale tick of muscle and escaped tear, because Will’s pain was beautiful to him. Was valuable, something to be cherished, to be savoured. Somehow, knowing this was comforting, rather than disturbing. Another level down, once you’d scraped the rest aside though, there was excitement, a sort of wild, misplaced delight, and some small part of that was because Hannibal was also afraid. Their family had been torn apart at a time when the balancing act between the two of them had become particularly unstable. There was no guarantee that they still had a life together, and Hannibal knew this. Understood that Will was seeing all of it in his eyes, but made no effort to hide himself.

Hannibal nodded sharply in response to Will’s request, and extended his hand. Will trembled, because he could see Hannibal didn’t expect him to accept, was waiting for Will to brush past him instead. Suddenly, Will could feel all the ways in which he had changed since knowing this man, and realized again he didn’t fit in his old world, might not fit anywhere, any longer. He understood then that it was the same for Hannibal; Will had broken something open, clawed his way in, and moved everything around in accordance with a foreign design. Will took Hannibal’s hand, their fingers interlacing, palms coming together, and for Will, for just one brilliant, comforting moment, it felt like they were the same person.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took approximately fifteen minutes before they were confronted with the aftermath of Abigail. During that time, no words were exchanged, and Will’s grip upon Hannibal’s hand remained steady, unflinching. They stood shoulder to shoulder in an empty operating room, staring at the body of Abigail Hobbs. The nurses had done their best to clean her up, cover her, and Will found it to be funny, the way things sometimes are when you’re in shock. Didn’t they know his _entire life_ orbited blood and death?

“Medical tubing,” Will murmured, staring at the deep, angry marks on Abigail’s neck, unable to help himself. “Strangled from behind.” He ran a hand over his face. “She was supposed to be safe.”

“Jacob Anderson works at the hospital,” Hannibal said, and Will thought of the ‘aliases’ he had read off to Hannibal, felt sick. “They found needle marks on Agent Fisher. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

She looked so young, lying there. Will couldn’t look away, blinked rapidly to clear the tears from his field of vision. “This is my fault,” he whispered. Hannibal’s hand tightened on Will’s own, his thumb stroking back and forth, an attempt to comfort. “I should have listened to you, should fought Jack harder, I...”

“Jack left you no choice in the matter. Mistakes were made, but there was nothing you could have done, Will.”

The guilt was pushing aside the grief, making it bearable. Will thought again of Hannibal’s warnings, thought of all the little misinterpretations that had piled up, the distractions, all the time that could have been spent with Abigail that he had wasted instead.

Hannibal stepped closer, leaning over to whisper in Abigail’s ear, his free hand stroking her hair. “I'm so sorry, Abigail,” he said softly. “I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life.”

Will’s grip on Hannibal’s hand tightened, and he tugged hard, causing the doctor to turn and face him, a naked look of surprise evident, as if he expected Will to chase him from the room, turn on him, attack him. “Hannibal,” he said, and all of the grief he had been holding back came through in the word.

Will thought of the child in his dream, of her saying Hannibal’s name and it sounding like the personification of joy. Maybe that boy still existed somewhere inside the man before him, a ghost in the machine. Will hoped so, because he understood now that he had crossed the threshold, stepped through the looking glass. He’d had a chance, a choice, really, and he had made it. Part of him understood that it had likely been the wrong choice, but Hannibal had given Will an unobstructed view, had extended his hand, and Will had taken it, eyes wide open.

There was no alternative now but to allow himself to feel this, to let it shake him apart, rip him open, change him forever, and he needed Hannibal to hold him through the transformation. He pressed his face into the solid reality of Hannibal’s chest and screamed out his pain like a wild thing, hunched over and writhing, hating, choking on it, choking on his love for Abigail, on his loss. Abigail hadn’t been allowed the pain of giving birth, and so Will would feel it on her behalf, even if the birth was only symbolic.

It hurt. There was too much, too soon, his thoughts and feelings smashing together in confusing ways. As much as he loved her, not all of the tears were purely for Abigail. Many were for himself, for Hannibal, and the understanding that her death had changed their world, and he did not feel prepared for the aftermath. They would have to return to the house together, and it was just a house now, because their family had been destroyed. When he’d been in the hospital, although he’d been distracted by a need to return to his pursuit of the Puppet Master, he’d been equally anxious to simply go _home_. And now, because of Abigail, he had no home, just a house. As crushing as that realization was, there was comfort in the pain, because he’d always suspected it was temporary. How could he have ever believed they would be able to keep that, the strange little world they’d built together?

He wanted it back. He wanted his life back. He tried to claw his way into the past through his imagination, but it was too soon, too fresh, and the end result was simply that of a perversely altered memory. Him panicking, splattered with blood, a shaking wreck of a thing that responded to the name Will Graham. Garrett Jacob Hobbs gasped, “See?” and he looked, he _saw_. Abigail sputtered, so very pale, fragile, and then Hannibal took his steady doctor’s hands away from Abigail’s neck, staring down at her in mild curiosity. His head was cocked ever so slightly, and he wore a soft, patient smile while she bled out on the kitchen floor. “See?” Hannibal met his eyes, blinking lazily as if nothing had happened. He reached across Abigail’s corpse, swiped his thumb over Will’s cheek to collect a bit of her blood, brought it to his mouth. Will cried harder, was sick with it, made strange, tortured noises, knew the only reason he was still standing was because Hannibal was holding him up. He just wanted his life back.

Minutes, hours, days, or years passed, but at some point he realized it had grown quiet. He had grown quiet. He felt raw, emptied, brittle. Will exhaled shakily, but there was nothing left inside. Hannibal understood. He was the only person Will trusted with this breakdown, this display of weakness, the only person he could allow to hold him, comfort him, rock him in an embrace. They must have been that way for some time, Hannibal making soothing noises, his mouth moving warmly against Will’s neck. It sent shivers through his body, and he pressed himself closer, wanting the sharp pain of it, thinking absently that he had torn some of his stitches in his fit of grief. He could feel the dampness against his skin, the way his shirt was sticking to him, and knew when they separated that he would have left his mark on Hannibal’s expensive clothes.

“I want you to kill him.”

The rocking motion stilled, and long fingers wound their way through his hair. Hannibal’s heart rate remained steady, his breathing regular, but Will could feel the tension in the strong arms wrapped around him. “I can’t do that.”

Will laughed, and it echoed strangely through the operating room. He stepped out of Hannibal’s embrace, needing to see him, was somewhat surprised by the depth of pain he saw present in the other man’s eyes. “You _can’t_?”

Hannibal’s lips seemed to curl back from his teeth, making his mouth look like that of an animal, not a man. “I won’t. If I did as you asked…” he cupped Will’s face, brushed his sweat soaked hair back from his brow, eyes desperate, hungry.

Will placed his hand over Hannibal’s, holding it in place against his cheek as he stepped in close so they were sharing the same air, lips almost brushing when he said, “You _want_ to.”

It was as if great bonfires ignited somewhere behind Hannibal’s eyes—the sort from which the word derived, piled high with bones—and in that moment Will understood that this body before him was home to something he did not as of yet fully comprehend. Will moaned softly, feeling the heat of Hannibal’s want everywhere on his body, as the doctor’s fingers tightened almost painfully, his short, manicured nails digging into the soft spot behind Will’s ear, into his jaw. When Hannibal kissed him it was alive with desperation. Will didn’t recognize the noise Hannibal made, it didn’t even sound human, but then Hannibal’s tongue was in his mouth, tasting him, and Will could only kiss back with equal parts distress and desire, chest heaving against Hannibal’s. He took fistfulls of Hannibal’s hair, held on as if everything depended on it, didn’t care that Hannibal’s lip had split open from the rough movements of mouth on mouth. That he tasted of blood made the kiss all the more honest.

Hannibal was the one to finally break the spell, pushing Will to arm’s length, and he looked tortured, devastated. He both understood, and in some strange way loved, the fact that Will was attempting to manipulate him. When he was once again capable of speech, he said, “You don’t yet appreciate what it is you’re asking of me.” He blinked several times, and Will tried to remember if he’d ever seen Hannibal look so vulnerable before. “You’re not a killer, Will. Eventually, you would hate me for it.”

Some logical part of Will knew this was the truth. It might even have been why he had asked in the first place. Tempt him, test him, find him wanting, turn on him. A desperate attempt to escape this unfamiliar world they now occupied. Will smiled, and it was ugly. He gestured to Abigail, where she lay broken and carved open on the operating table. “She was _ours_ , Hannibal.”

The guilt washed back over him, the weight of the truth behind the words dragging him under. She had been the bridge to them finding each other, and seeing her destroyed and displayed in the operating room was like staring at the physical manifestation of their relationship.

Hannibal shook his head again, regaining his composure, but made no attempt to hide anything as he said, “Abigail _was_. Mischa _is_.”

Abigail was standing behind Hannibal, pale and serious, ignoring her own corpse, her eyes pleading. Will covered his face in his hands, as if to hide from the truth. “Mischa,” he said, and thought of the look on Hannibal’s face the last time he had said the name. He began laughing, couldn’t help it, had to wrap an arm around himself because of the pain it caused. His teeth were chattering, and he clenched his jaw to keep from accidentally biting his own tongue, tried to calm his breathing. When he opened his eyes Abigail was no longer in the room, only her lifeless body remained. Hannibal’s face was, surprisingly, wet with tears, and for some reason it made Will think of drowning Samuel Anderson in his dream. No lines.

“Mischa is ours,” he said between his clenched teeth, voice a low growl of pain, and the words made it true. He hadn’t even seen her yet, had avoided comprehending the reality of her for as long as he possibly could, but in that moment she became his. Theirs. “ _Ours_ ,” he said again, and the word was a promise, one he hoped desperately he would be able to keep, because the gratitude in Hannibal’s eyes was marvelous to behold.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took far longer to gain entry to the NICU than it had for them to be taken to see Abigail’s remains. Although Will had forgotten about it, the hospital staff took note of the bloody state of his clothing, insisted on repairing his stitches before he and Hannibal were then made to scrub, and suit up. It reminded him uncomfortably of the precautions taken to prevent contamination at a crime scene.

This time, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, it was to look down upon life. Five pounds, ten ounces of fragile life. Will paid little attention to the medical information being discussed around him, unable to tear his eyes away from the strange creature before him. It wasn’t until he was answering the question that he even realized they’d been asked for a name for the birth certificate. “Mischa Lecter.”

Hannibal wrapped a hand around Will’s wrist, his grip painfully tight, as if he needed the physical contact to help make the moment real. It was fleeting, though, because Mischa was waiting. She looked insubstantial as Hannibal lifted her from the incubator, using the level of care one normally reserved for fragile historical documents, or extremely volatile chemicals. Impossibly small, when tucked against Hannibal’s chest, so much so that the prospect of holding her was suddenly terrifying. Instead, Will carefully stroked her cheek, then examined each of her tiny fingers.

Unable to help himself, Will thought again of Abigail, suddenly distressed at the idea of her being left alone, even though he knew full well that there was nothing left of her in the discarded remains. Just the idea of her cold, opened body all alone in a dark room made him want to begin screaming again.

Abigail was the past, and Mischa was the future. He tried to imagine a life for the three of them, most of what he conjured seeming impossible, almost laughingly so, considering his own childhood, what little he knew of Hannibal’s, and his convictions concerning the man beside him. He thought of Hannibal’s vicious attack on Samuel Anderson, and found it difficult to reconcile that person with the one currently cradling this infant. Thought of himself, all his failings and fears. Who in their right mind could possibly think them raising a child together was a good idea?

“I always was a little crazy,” Abigail pointed out, and he wanted her to leave again, couldn’t handle seeing her projected there in that space, unable to actually touch her child.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, let himself hurt, because it was easier than letting himself hope. In his mind there was a girl, and she looked a bit like him, a bit like Hannibal, and he read to her, and taught her to fish, and held her when she was scared. Hannibal would fuss over her, and Will would have to fight to make certain she wasn’t spoiled rotten. Hannibal would teach her French, and how to play the piano, would create the most wonderful birthday cakes for her. She’d have a phalanx of dogs to protect her, to play with, and nothing would ever be bad again. Will would tell Jack Crawford to find someone else to do his dirty work, focus on his teaching, and make this his life. The truth was, ridiculous or not, Will had never wanted something so very much. It was absolutely terrifying, and it took every last bit of his strength to open his eyes and face the possibility.

“Your mom really wanted to meet you,” Will whispered, his voice still raw from the screaming. He lost control halfway through the sentence, the words choked off by a sob. He exhaled shakily, grinding his teeth, as he added, “We’re your family,” and for the first time, the word did not feel like a lie when he used it.

Hannibal spoke to her then, and Will could only watch, not understanding most of what had been said aside from the one phrase Hannibal had taught him in Lithuanian. Will was left to absorb the meaning behind the words from the rawness of Hannibal’s voice, and the entirely undone expression in his eyes. Smiling viciously, Hannibal finally looked at him, and he was almost unrecognizable. The joy, the sense of victory, really, had exceeded the tipping point and become positively maniacal. If he hadn’t been certain that Hannibal was unequivocally in love with Mischa, Will might have felt the need to remove her from his grasp in order to protect her. And while he understood there was a great deal he still did not know about his lover, he did know that Hannibal would die before harming this girl.

“Thank you, Will.”

Mischa’s fingers curled around Will’s own, and he felt a violent wave of protectiveness wash over him. “Nothing bad can _ever_ happen to her, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and the joy was infused with love now, possessive, and fathomless, and as much for Will as it was for the child. It made no sense at all, he could feel the panic creeping in, trying to crowd him, remind him of all the reasons he had to distrust this man, to run, to save the baby and himself, but instead he allowed himself a momentary internal freefall into Hannibal’s eyes.

Will closed all the spaces left between them, carefully positioning himself so that he could have one arm around Hannibal, and one hand placed protectively atop Mischa’s head, and then they kissed. It was shaky, tenuous, a gentle brushing of lips and sharing of breath. Will curled his fingers around the back of Hannibal’s neck, deepened the kiss, tried to tell him without words all the strange little hopes and dreams he had, their eyes still open, and he could see that Hannibal understood. His doubts and fears were temporarily forced into insubstantiality by the love he was feeling, was being fed. It was the strangest sensation in the world, powerful and addictive, and maybe this could actually be his life now. He wanted it to be his life.

Mischa made the tiniest noise, and Will pulled himself away from Hannibal’s mouth, not understanding how he could swing from screaming in pain to smiling so widely that his face ached with it. He was flailing wildly between extremes, and needed to close his eyes again, close off the world for a moment so he could cope.

When he came back to himself, Will found Hannibal carefully placing Mischa back into the incubator. “We’ll be back soon, Mischa,” he said, beginning to wrap himself safely within the protective confines of his clinical persona. Masks upon masks, Will thought, but it was neither the time, nor the place. He allowed himself one last look at the infant, stroked the vulnerable crown of her tiny head, and then followed Hannibal out of the NICU.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Will and Hannibal returned to the waiting room, everyone stopped talking. Will took a deep, calming breath, looking at Beverly, Alana, and Jack in turn, absorbing the varying levels of visible heartbreak on display. He wondered if, just by looking at him, they could recognize that he was a different man from the one they had last seen. That they almost looked like strangers to him, curious artifacts from a life that had ended. The moment stretched out uncomfortably, until Hannibal placed a hand on Will’s shoulder, the spark of physical contact serving to reanimate him.

Beverly was the first to rise, approaching Will as if he was a cornered animal, liable to lash out in pain. He had a vague recollection of shoving Alana, tried to feel bad, but failed; the well had run dry. He forced a wobbly smile onto his face. “Hi Bev,” he said hoarsely.

“Hi.” She smiled back, and he snatched her hand, gave it a little reassuring squeeze. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

She gestured to his shirt, and he glanced down, hand momentarily fluttering up to hide the bloodstain before he just let his arm fall back to his side. “Just an issue with the stitches. It’s been fixed.”

Based on the way they were all watching him, he had to imagine he looked as bad as he sounded. Bad as he physically felt, for that matter. It was tempting to take more of his pain medication in order to numb himself for a while, but he needed to be able to think if they were going to finish this thing once and for all.

“Where are we on finding Jacob Anderson?”

“We’ve initiated a manhunt,” Jack explained, and Will was grateful that Crawford didn’t bother with condolences. He handed over his cellphone, and on the screen was the employee ID photo for Jacob Anderson. Will stared at the last person Abigail had seen, burning the image into his mind, taking note of all the little features Anderson shared with his incarcerated brother.

That Jack offered nothing else was indicative to the lack of success they’d had so far in finding Anderson. There was one person, though, who knew Jacob, and might be willing to talk with them now.

“I want to speak to Samuel Anderson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all for the overwhelming positive feedback over chapter 25! I should have known you could all hang with it, but I do feel bad for murdering a young pregnant woman. Oh, Jacob, you rascal, you.
> 
> Hope everyone enjoyed the boys meeting baby Mischa! No spoilers, but I feel like all the hannigram shippers are in need of feels right now. Maybe this will help a bit. ;)
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who has been playing with me ( _that sounds dirty..._ ) over on tumblr. It's been amazing to fangirl my face off with all of you. Also also, I need to hire a body double so I can have time to finish this AND write all the hannigram porn tumblr is inspiring. Sigh.


	27. Accept Without Complaint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone wants answers from Samuel Anderson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a slight potential trigger warning: there are some references to child abuse in this chapter, but nothing is graphically described.

“ _Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces._ ”―Sigmund Freud

 

Samuel could tell just by sound of his father’s footsteps that it was going to be a bad day. The sun had yet to rise, but they should have been up at least twenty minutes ago, and ready to work. He had been so tired, though, and when he’d struggled to get up, Jacob had pushed him back into the bed, joining him, stroking his hair until he had no choice but to fall back asleep. Now, eyes wide with fear, he looked up at his older brother for guidance.

“Morning duties await,” their father said, the bedroom door bouncing against the wall from the force with which it was opened. “See to them immediately.”

Jacob climbed out of the bed, and Samuel wasted no time in following his lead, each of them scrambling into their clothes. Before he had a chance to finish dressing, Samuel was cracked on the side of the head, his ears ringing as he fought to maintain his balance, knowing if he fell to the floor that there would be a kick to follow. He did not cry out, but continued as if nothing had happened, wincing sympathetically as Jacob received the same treatment.

Their eyes met once their father had left the room, and Jacob came to him, pulling Samuel into a rough embrace. “Soon, brother,” he whispered hotly into Samuel’s ear, squeezing him tightly, almost painfully tight. He kissed Samuel’s forehead, smoothed his sleep tousled hair back into place, then gave him another hug. “Remember, father is larger, but we are smarter.”

Samuel’s chest felt ready to explode with love, and he nodded to his brother, believing, hoping, knowing if anyone could save them, it would be Jacob. It gave him the strength to leave their room, to sustain the rigid posture their father demanded they adopt when in his presence. Willpower to struggle through his chores despite the residual pain from the discipline he had received the day before, after having left the broom positioned incorrectly when returning it to the designated storage location.

They would be working in the old barn that day, continuing their repairs. It was his father’s pet project, one he had somehow received permission from the community to complete with only the help of his sons. Samuel hated the barn. Everything within seemed to exist for the sole purpose of stoking the fires of his father’s anger. He had nightmares about the barn, in fact, but Jacob always made sure to keep their parents from hearing his cries, because Jacob loved him, and he loved Jacob, and someday they would live in a city together, with the English.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Perhaps it would be best if I began?” Hannibal asked, already knowing what the answer would be. He was counting on it, in fact. Will shook his head, said, “I don’t want you in there.”

Although the words were sharp, dismissive, they held no bite for Hannibal. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, and Will pressed into the point of contact, brushed his fingers against Hannibal’s own before he left the room, Jack close on his heels, leaving Beverly, Alana, and Hannibal relegated to the role of observers.

“How are you?” Alana asked, sliding into the space Will had previously occupied. Hannibal placed an arm around her shoulders, gave her a comforting squeeze.

“Concerned,” he finally said, shifting closer to the window, peering in at Samuel.

This was, at least in part, true. He was concerned, but also oddly hopeful. It had been a struggle to push aside his thoughts of Mischa, and of the beautiful breakdown Will had suffered in his arms. Of the strange, wild happiness that had taken up residence in his heart, and the ferocious wordless promises they had shared over the course of the day. Abigail’s death had provided him with a fulcrum, Mischa’s birth would serve as a lever; finally, he had something substantial to work with. Hannibal certainly wasn't above using Abigail's death to his advantage, and genuinely believed she would have approved. It was for the benefit of Mischa, after all. The child was always meant to be his, but the possibility of her being _theirs_ … He closed his eyes for a moment, thought of the fire in Will’s eyes when he had said ‘ _ours_.’

It was tempting to hope, but also silly, sentimental, and he wasn’t particularly prone to silliness. At the very least, Abigail had unknowingly made his escape plan far easier to execute, something for which he was grateful. According to the doctors, Mischa would require another week in the NICU, but he was confident they could leave ahead of schedule with minimal risk to her health.

Setting his own troubles aside, Hannibal refocused on the matter at hand. Samuel Anderson fascinated him, and he was determined to find an opportunity to converse with the killer, suspected it would be necessary before too long. Despite his best intentions, Will was too raw to be in a position to handle the interrogation without incident, which would leave an opening for Hannibal to step in once Will lost control.

Samuel looked a bit worse for the wear, the bruises having fully blossomed, his face swollen, painful looking. His spirits seemed to be high though, as if he was enjoying the attention, but expected to be released before too long. To the casual observer, he might have appeared to be the picture of innocence, but Hannibal could see past the calm church boy exterior, see the dark amusement beneath the surface.

The change was subtle and lasted for only a handful of heartbeats, but when Samuel saw Will enter the room, he broadcast volumes to Hannibal. That Samuel had expected Will to be dead was obvious, and Will’s presence meant Jacob had failed him, could have been captured, or even killed. The concern for his brother was palpable, and Hannibal was disappointed he would not be the one to inform young Samuel of the betrayal that had taken place.

As if understanding Hannibal would be watching, Samuel shifted his gaze to the one-way mirror, smiling softly, and tipping his head in a subtle nod of greeting, managing to create the illusion that his observer had been, in fact, observed. Hannibal smiled in response to the gesture, even as beside him Alana shifted uncomfortably and muttered, “That’s creepy.”

"Mr. Anderson, I assume you're familiar with my colleague, Will Graham?" Jack began.

Samuel ducked his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. I must say, I'm a fan." He attempted to offer up a handshake, then smiled with chagrin when he ran out of slack, chains and cuffs clanging softly as he reached their limit. With a little shrug of apology, he lowered his hands to once more rest against the table.

As Will carefully took a seat, moving as if his entire body was alive with pain, Hannibal watched and wished he could see his lover’s face, wished he was in the room to absorb every last detail. Jack took the seat beside Will, glancing at him sideways, concern obvious even from another room.

“I feel like we already know each other,” Will said, voice like battery acid. “Or am I thinking of your brother?”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“He wouldn’t know,” Will repeated, speaking to Jack before refocusing his attention on Samuel. Hannibal wondered if he was making eye contact, or hiding behind his glasses. “I know, though. I know someone beat you, when you were young. Jacob put an end to that though, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

It was quiet for a moment. “Mr. Graham,” Samuel said, leaning forward a bit, his expression repentant, “your remark makes me uncomfortable. I’m not sure what my childhood or my brother has to do with this misunderstanding I seem to have found myself in the middle of.”

“The misunderstanding is between you and Jacob. You seem to be under the impression that you’re special,” Will pitched his voice lower, “when you’re just another puppet.”

Samuel sat quietly, and Hannibal was pleased to observe him carefully running his thumb back and forth across the bruised knuckles of his left hand. He remained reserved, not rising to the bait. “We searched your apartment, Officer Anderson,” Jack added.

“I hope you wiped your feet before entering.”

“I think you’re going to enjoy prison.” Will leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial. “Being controlled. Orchestrated.”

Samuel leaned in as well, but looked to the one-way mirror, essentially ignoring Will. “Control can be beautiful, as can loss of control.” He sat back again, shrugging his shoulders. “But I’m not sure why you think I’ll be going to prison.”

“Your home is very _tidy_.” Will made the word sound dirty. Anderson made no reply, simply continued stroking his bruised knuckles, blinking slowly, as if bored.

“We weren’t able to lift a single fingerprint from your apartment,” Jack announced, and Samuel’s smugness grew. “The house was a different story, thankfully.”

Ah. This got Samuel’s attention. His gaze skittered once more to the mirror before sliding back to Will and Jack. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that remark. I don’t own a house.”

“Jacob owns a house.” Will slid something across the table, and Hannibal surmised it was the photograph retrieved from the refrigerator. “He was kind enough to leave this in your apartment. He might as well have drawn us a map.”

Samuel picked up the photograph, smoothing the plastic of the evidence bag in order to get a better look, flipped it over and saw the address scribbled in his brother’s hand. When he was done inspecting the item, he returned it to the table, carefully adjusting it in a way Hannibal found comfortably familiar. “I’ve never seen this house before.”

“He’s never seen it before,” Jack said to Will. “See, I find that lie particularly interesting.”

“Amateurish. Your kind,” Will gestured towards Samuel, “are so predictably _disappointing_. You work so hard to get attention, then when you have it, you waste our time with transparent lies.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, sir. I am beginning to think I should seek legal council, though. I’m injured, and I’ve been held here for quite some time, all on the back of trumped up assault charges.” He raised his shackled hands as if in supplication. “I’m very sorry if the altercation with Dr. Lecter upset you. I understand you’re quite close.”

“What upsets me,” Will hissed, snapping the photo off of the table and shaking it in Samuel’s face, “is what we found here.”

“Your brother isn’t as tidy as you are, Officer Anderson,” Jack said, opening the folder he’d brought with him. “The amount of forensic evidence we’ve discovered is going to keep my lab busy for quite some time.”

Will flicked the photo at Anderson, and it glided through the air to ultimately land on the floor after hitting him in the face. Samuel smiled coldly, and Hannibal understood all too well the desire he must have in that moment to retrieve the photo, return it to its proper place. “Lawyer.”

“Let’s set aside the videos, the mess in the basement, and all the rest for the time being,” Jack began, and Samuel’s jaw tightened. “I’m hoping we can talk about Abigail Hobbs.”

“Here we go,” Beverly whispered from somewhere behind him, and Hannibal found himself wishing he was alone in the room.

“I recognize the name, but I’m not sure what she has to do with me.”

“You had a shrine dedicated to her in your bedroom,” Jack pointed out, placing a photograph on the table. “So I’m certain you recognize more than her name.”

Samuel leaned over, scanned the photo as if unable to help himself. “Is this the third or fourth time I’m asking for a lawyer? I must admit, with the concussion, it’s hard to keep track.”

“Why Abigail Hobbs?” Jack asked, but Samuel ignored his remark, continued talking over him.

“The throbbing headache is terribly distracting. Your doctor is vicious, Mr. Graham.”

The tension in Will’s body was obvious, the remark striking some chord within, and Hannibal wasn’t surprised to see him jabbing a finger in Anderson’s face. “Your _brother_ is vicious, Sam. I’m guessing he didn’t approve of your fascination with Abigail?”

Samuel let his head tip back, exposing the long lines of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Hannibal allowed himself a moment to imagine Will wrapping his hands around the exposed neck, squeezing the life out of him, knew Will was likely thinking the same. “Lawyer. Really, this is bordering on harassment, gentlemen.”

“Do you care about her at all?” Will asked, and his growing anger was palpable. “You’re not at all curious what your brother did to her?”

Samuel’s head snapped back up, but he now wore an altogether different expression. “Lawyer.”

“You’re not going to want a lawyer, Sam, you’re going to want to talk to me about your piece of shit brother.”

“It’s Samuel.”

“Samuel,” Will spat, and Jack placed a hand on Will’s arm, causing Will to yank away from the touch. ”Samuel, your piece of shit brother has done something that’s going to _make_ you want to talk to us, I think.”

Samuel leaned in close, as close as was possible without rising out of his seat. “I find that highly unlikely. If you’re interested in Jacob, and who he knows and what it is he gets up to, go talk to him.”

“We’d love to,” Jack interjected. “Maybe you could help us find him.”

“Your piece of shit brother,” Will said, and over him Samuel said, “Stop calling him that.”

“I’m calling him that because that’s what he is,” Will spat, voice cracking under the weight of his emotional burden. “Was she just a _thing_ to you? Did you sit there in your _tidy_ little room, and jerk off to pictures of her?”

“Lawyer, lawyer, my kingdom for a lawyer!” Samuel’s eyes were wide, his jaw tight.

“Where is your brother, Officer Anderson?” Jack asked again.

“How am I supposed to know?” Samuel snapped, his voice finally rising, making his irritation clear. “I’ve been locked up in here, haven’t I?”

“Was it his idea, sending you after Hannibal?” Will suddenly asked, and Samuel looked through the mirror once more. “That’s what I thought. What did he tell you he was going to do while you handled that? Kill me?”

“Will,” Jack began, just as Samuel once again evoked his right to legal council. Will continued on, determined now. “Because he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain, if that was the plan.”

“Why did Jack let him go in there?” Alana asked quietly, but Hannibal ignored her.

“Mr. Graham,” Samuel tried to say, but Will was continuing to talk over him. “He did kill someone, by the way. Want to play guess who?”

Samuel was upright in his chair now, rigid, eyes narrowed. “I always heard you were unbalanced, but I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m starting to think _Tattle Crime_ had you pegged.”

From what Hannibal could see, Will was gripping the table with both hands, possibly in an attempt to keep himself from striking Samuel. “It was Abigail,” he shouted, slamming his fists down on the table.

Samuel shook his head, although interestingly enough, his mouth was trembling. “That you would lie about something so disgusting…” He seemed to catch himself, sat back, tightlipped and wagged a finger at Will, the chains jingling as he did so. “We’re on the same side, here.”

“Same side? He _strangled_ her,” Will tried to say while Samuel shouted, “Shut up!” over him.

“Jacob choked the life out of her,” Will continued, voice shaking.

“My brother wouldn’t…” But then Jack was sliding another photo across the table, and Hannibal could actually see the color drain from Samuel’s face. He stared at the photograph, mouth hanging slack, and the look on his face when he raised his head reminded Hannibal of the look Will had worn, when he finally understood what had happened. “That’s fake,” Samuel said softly, not sounding as if he believed his own words.

“That’s Jacob’s doing,” Will said, grabbing the photo and holding it up, shoving it in Samuel’s face. “He killed her, because you had to go and show off, needed to impress Abigail, and she ruined everything! He couldn’t control you any more, and so he’s cut you loose in the worst possible way, Samuel.”

“That’s not true.”

“She came between the two of you, didn’t she?” Will continued, shouting now, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Did you know she was pregnant? She’ll never get to meet her daughter! Does that even matter, you fucking...”

“Of course it matters,” Samuel shouted, and his face was transformed by pain as he began to accept the possibility that what he was hearing was true. “That’s _my_ baby!”

Hannibal was already on his way out of the observation room, even as Will grabbed Samuel by the hair in order to smash his face down against the table. He was already waiting outside the door as Jack opened it, and physically threw Will into the hallway, the man reduced to a vicious, snarling thing.

Jack pushed Will back against Hannibal’s chest, and the doctor carefully held him in place, mindful of his injuries. “You are not going to compromise this,” Jack shouted, finger in Will’s face. The profiler was heaving, struggling, but Hannibal had an arm wound tightly around his neck. “Control yourself! From here on out, you watch.”

“I’m fine,” Will spat, stilling himself as much as possible. He covered his face with his hands, and Hannibal spotted the blood on his knuckles. He must have gotten at least one punch in before Jack threw him out of the room. His entire body was shaking against Hannibal’s own with anger and adrenaline, and Hannibal was tempted to let go, see if Will would rush back in to finish what he started.

Jack stared them down, ultimately looking to Hannibal. “Take him into the other room. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Jack,” Will said, jerking his shoulder in an attempt to release himself from Hannibal’s hold on him. “Let Hannibal go in with you.”

“This isn’t up for discussion.” Jack glared at them each before returning to the interrogation room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Will trembled against Hannibal. “Let go,” he murmured, even as he leaned into the body behind him. He jerked with surprise when Hannibal shifted his grip to wrap one large hand around his neck, fingers pressing into Will’s pulse point.

“Too much, too soon,” Hannibal whispered hotly against Will’s ear, placing his other hand over Will’s eyes to better block out the world. “Hush, now.” The body he held continued to shake, but Hannibal could feel Will’s heart rate slowing, the pulse no longer pounding fitfully against his fingertips, his breathing no longer ragged. Will reached back, curled his hands around any part of Hannibal he could grab hold of, making a small noise of dismay.

“He was telling the truth, wasn’t he? About Mischa?”

Hannibal licked his lips, nuzzled the side of Will’s face. “Yes.”

“He won’t talk to Jack,” Will whispered. “He’ll ask for you.” He shifted his hips, ground against Hannibal suggestively and said, “I want to watch you break him.”

Hannibal felt his chest seize up almost painfully as he forced Will’s head back further, tightening his grip around the man’s throat. He pressed his face into the side of Will’s neck, removed his hand from Will’s eyes and breathed in sweat, and fear, and lust, and sickness, and _Will_.

“If it pleases you,” he finally answered, releasing his hold on Will, who immediately spun around to face him. Will looked torn to pieces, but beautifully alive in the moment, and Hannibal fell in love all over again as Will walked away from him, leaving the doctor to wait for Jack’s summons.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will entered the observation room feeling as if his anger was a living thing walking beside him, somehow feeling weak and powerful at the same time. His body protested every movement, his muscles twitching with fatigue, aching with exhaustion. Soon, he would simply fall over, but for now he had enough emotional turmoil burning inside to allow him to overcome the weakness, even if he did need to lean heavily against the glass of the one-way mirror in order to keep himself upright.

“Please don’t touch me,” he whispered hoarsely as Alana hovered nearby.

“How about a chair at least?” Beverly asked. “Keep in mind that if you say no, I’ll just push you into one.”

Will nodded, tried not to sigh in relief as he all but collapsed into the chair she drug over for him. He scrubbed his hands across his face, and waited, watched, smiled to see Samuel attempting to wipe the blood from his face, getting it all over his sleeves, knowing the mess it was making would drive him crazy.

Jack tried to press forward with the interrogation, but Samuel remained quiet, not even bothering with requesting a lawyer any longer. Will dug his fingernails into his palms as Samuel finally looked up, facing the mirror once again, saying, “I won’t talk to you.”

“You want Will Graham back in here?”

Samuel smiled crookedly, and Will could see his teeth were pink with residual blood. “I’d rather speak with the doctor, if you don’t mind.”

“We can get you a doctor,” Jack began, and Samuel yanked hard against the chains, the sound cutting off Jack’s words.

“You know who I mean. Alone. You can go hide behind the glass with the little coward, and watch.” Apparently Samuel was no longer feeling polite. It made Will smile, but he wasn’t truly pleased until Jack left the room, and after what felt like an eternity, Hannibal Lecter took his place.

Crawford joined them in the observation room. “One step out of line, and I pull him out of there.”

“He won’t lay a finger on him,” Will muttered, trying to block out Jack’s presence entirely.

Samuel watched Hannibal warily as he entered, and Will hated the respect he saw in the young man’s eyes. It reminded him uncomfortably of the Samuel in his dreams. Hannibal made a tsking noise as he pulled out an expensive handkerchief and extended it to Samuel, a peace offering. While Anderson began wiping the blood from his hands, then carefully from his face, Hannibal retrieved the photograph from the floor, and arranged it neatly upon the table, making adjustments to the other photos Jack had left behind until the angles were just right.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Dr. Lecter,” Samuel said, voice polite once more.

“My pleasure.” Hannibal accepted the handkerchief when it was offered back, although he gestured to Samuel’s face. “May I?”

Will ground his teeth, bile rising as he watched Hannibal take Samuel by the chin, tilt his face up in order to better clean away the blood. He used two fingers to probe the tender area around Samuel’s broken nose, making a soft noise of dismay. “I’m afraid you will be left with scars, and your nose will heal crooked.”

Samuel blinked slowly. He seemed much calmer, now, and it grated at Will’s nerves. “I’m not afraid of scars.”

“I must apologize for my colleague.” Hannibal settled into the seat opposite Samuel, smoothing his suit, adjusting the chair minutely before carefully folding up the soiled handkerchief. “Unlike myself, Mr. Graham was an only child.” Will could feel Alana and Jack watching him, the remark surprising them.

“That explains a lot,” Samuel said, his smile bright, eager. “He’s—pardon my language, sir—full of shit.”

Hannibal was quiet, allowed the moment to build, then changed the subject entirely. “Your home, your true home, is quite enchanting. My tastes don’t necessarily align with your own, nevertheless I appreciate your aesthetic.”

Samuel smiled again, leaned forward a bit in excitement. “Everything has its proper place.”

“Including yourself, I think,” Hannibal answered. “It saddened me, seeing the sacrifices required to cohabitate with Jacob. You must care for him very deeply, to compromise yourself so thoroughly.”

“We care for each other,” Samuel corrected, although it was clear to Will that Hannibal’s words had struck a nerve, as they did with Will. He knew Hannibal wasn’t speaking purely about Anderson. “Sacrifices are necessary, sometimes.”

“You seem to be the only one making these ‘necessary sacrifices,’ Samuel.” Hannibal rose from his seat, pushed the chair back in place before circling around to the other side of the table. He stood too close to Samuel, one hand on his shoulder as if they were old friends, and placed a photo in front of the man. “I see Jacob tolerating, not compromising.”

Samuel glanced up at Hannibal, then at the photo, his mouth turning down at the corners. Hannibal replaced this photo with another, lining it up with precision. “I see your father in these photos. I hear your father in your words.”

This got Samuel’s attention, and Will chewed on his lower lip, hungry to see this young killer in pain. “My father has been dead for some time, Dr. Lecter.”

“Jacob killed your father,” Hannibal clarified, hand still on Samuel’s shoulder. “Made you complicent in the act. Did you believe it was on your behalf?”

“Everything Jacob has ever done has been to protect me,” Samuel insisted.

Hannibal moved his hand to rest it between Samuel’s shoulder blades, and Will once again felt himself rankle at the intimacy of the touch he was being made to witness. Hannibal bent forward a bit at the waist, slotting yet another photo into place, crowding Samuel now. “Your value to Jacob is your malleability,” he said softly. “He used the words of your father, speaking of ‘your own good’ even as he added to your collection of scars. Instead of fearing him as you should, you loved him all the more.”

Samuel turned to face Hannibal, and Will could see something had changed inside of Anderson. Could almost hear gears slipping, metal grinding on metal. “You’re wrong.”

“I think I would like to see your scars. They’re a map. I could trace all the little course corrections your loving brother imposed upon you over the years. Did Abigail see them? Or were you too ashamed to show her the truth?”

“You’re _wrong_.” There was little conviction behind the words this time, and Samuel looked down once more, his eyes blinking rapidly. Will wondered if the photo had represented a particularly happy memory for Samuel, before Jacob burned his own image away, leaving his brother stranded in the past, alone forever.

“How old were you, the first time Jacob held you down and forced his way inside?” Samuel’s breathing had increased, and he attempted to shift away from Hannibal, even as the doctor leaned in closer, bringing his mouth to Samuel’s ear. “He apologized, after, but things were never quite the same. Did he try to pretend it didn’t matter, once you were old enough to fight off his advances?”

“That never happened,” Samuel whispered, ducking his head.

“Did it not? Everything has its proper place, Samuel, and yours is under Jacob’s thumb.”

“He was confused, he thought I would like it.”

Hannibal made a small noise of understanding, cocked his head awkwardly in order to force eye contact with Anderson. His voice was soft, hypnotic. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. It was about power, control. It worked, for a little while. How very disappointed he must have been, when you came home, stinking of sex, speaking of love. The very _idea_ of Abigail was anathema to Jacob.”

“He loves me.”

“I saw you strangle Lisa Yates. It was another’s life you imagined snuffing out, was it not? He must have know, Samuel. I could see the truth in your actions.” Hannibal placed a closeup photo of Abigail’s neck on top of the pile. He tousled Anderson’s hair playfully, and the man shuddered. “What secrets do you think he shared, as he strangled Abigail?”

“She’s really dead, isn’t she?” Samuel sounded incredibly young.

“That you’re weak? Nothing without him? That even after he sodomized you, he convinced you it was for your benefit? Did he make you thank him?”

Will smiled as Samuel began to shake, felt sick with perfect joy, even as he hated himself. Hated Hannibal for being so very good at this. Hated the sinking, horrible feeling that in another world, in another time, he was Samuel, and Hannibal Jacob. Nevertheless, he shuddered with pleasure as Samuel finally answered the question with a sob. “Yes.”

“Yes. Will you thank him again, Samuel?” Hannibal asked, adding another photo of Abigail’s body to the pile. “Shall we arrange for you to share a cell?”

Samuel’s head snapped up at this, and Will could see the fear. “Please. I… I didn’t want this.”

Hannibal’s expression was unreadable as he absently extended a hand, wiped aside Samuel’s tears. “I believe you.”

“She… her father… She needed a man,” Samuel stammered, “not a boy.”

Will ground his teeth, closed his eyes for a moment, understanding settling into the cracks of his grief, even as Hannibal continued along the path opened before him in Samuel’s psyche. “Your killings had always been secret.”

“Yes,” Samuel agreed. “Jacob said we could try something different, make a name for ourselves, like her father did.”

“Wielding control over another can be thrilling, for one so used to being controlled.”

“I just… It was a means to an end.”

Hannibal made a small noise of disappointment, and Samuel flinched, as if he had been struck. “You were doing so well, Samuel,” he remarked, walking away as if being near the young man was no longer appealing. Samuel watched him with desperation, panic evident in his eyes.

“I liked it,” he admitted, and Will sneered at the display of Samuel’s inherent need for approval. Hannibal had paused in front of the mirror, and Will stared up at him from his seat on the other side, heart racing at the cold curiosity he saw in Hannibal’s eyes. He wondered if Jack or Alana could see how very much he enjoyed twisting Samuel’s feelings into painful new shapes, thought back on his own troubled conversations with Hannibal a lifetime ago, and it made his skin break out in gooseflesh.

“Tell me, Samuel,” Hannibal said, and somehow, even through the glass, he found Will’s eyes with his own, “who were you in your mind, when you manipulated your victims? It wasn’t your brother.”

“I was my father,” Samuel whispered.

“Now Jacob had ended you, just as he ended your father.” Hannibal faced Samuel once more, his hands tucked behind his back, his tone conversational. “Cut you from his life like so much chaff. Left you to suffer for his transgressions. Destroyed the person you dared place above him.” Samuel began to snivel, his shoulders shaking. Hannibal threw the handkerchief at him, glared coldly. “Abigail would laugh to see you blubbering. Unable to say or do anything of use without your brother’s help.”

“That’s not true,” Samuel cried, placing his head in his hands. “She _liked_ me. Just for me, she liked me.”

“Death was a gift. Jacob would only have ruined her for you,” Hannibal remarked.

Samuel looked to him, pleadingly, his face a mask of pain. “I would have protected her from him. Both of them. We would have run away, I wouldn’t have…”

“He would have shown her how weak you are, and made you thank him, after.”

“No.”

“Abigail is dead. Neither of you will ever see the child you created. Jacob is free.” Hannibal shuffled through Jack’s photos once more, finally taking one out and holding it aloft for Samuel. “How long before he replaces you with someone less troublesome?”

Samuel slammed his fists against the table, the chains rattling chaotically, tears still streaming down his face. Will recognized the photo as one taken in Samuel’s apartment, the scale model of a barn, understood it was a replication of a place of great importance in the man’s life. Samuel stood, his hands still shackled, but he puffed his chest out and didn’t try to hide his tears. He’d finally come to a decision, perhaps even thought it was his own. “I’ll draw you a map, if you like, Dr. Lecter,” he said, grinning with pride. “Just promise you’ll tell him it was me that sent you.”

Hannibal smiled, but the smile was for Will Graham, and no one else. “If it pleases you.”

Will hid his face in his hands, couldn’t resolve the conflict in his heart, left straddling the divide between love, and disgust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Samuel. I like ya, kid, but... you're rotten. FYI, for those not familiar, the "live with the English" remark is due to the fact that Samuel and Jacob grew up in a Maryland Amish community. "The English" are how Amish refer to outsiders. No offense meant, the Amish are lovely people, and Mr. Anderson is just a bad egg jerk that represents no one but himself.
> 
> If I have my druthers, next posting will be a double feature, so you have the immediate aftermath, and then The Conversation in chapter 29. If my plotting works out correctly, there might only be one chapter after that. BUT! Because I have no ability to be succinct, and am addicted to writing in this universe, you're all going to suffer the wrath of The Follow Up Fic, which focuses on putting their lives back together.
> 
> Super duper so many thanks to all the commenters, and everyone playing with me over on the tumblr. I love all of you. *group hug* Did everyone survive last night's episode? I think I did, but I might only be dreaming that I'm still alive. *screams into the void* If you also have trauma, come hold my hand, as I weep gently.


	28. Not Being Who You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will visit the barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the chapters will be posted today, so if you like to marathon read, wait for it. ;)

“ _The most common form of despair is not being who you are_.”―Søren Kierkegaard

  


Samuel stared down at the broken, twitching body of their father where he lay sprawled on the floor of the barn, his eyes wide with shock, mouth slack. He could feel that some blood had landed on his face, it was in his eyelashes, and he was beginning to panic. “Jacob, what did you do?”

Jacob was grinning, staring down into their father’s face, watching. Waiting. “It was the only way, Samuel. Sit down.”

Samuel sat down as instructed. The fall needn’t be fatal, even with their father having landed on the old sickle mower. If help was sought, he could still live. It would be difficult healing, the leg twisted _wrongly_ beneath him would never be the same, but he would live. They should try to stop the bleeding, because there was still time. But Samuel did nothing, he sat as he was told, watching his brother watching his father, trying to block out the gurgling noises. Trying to ignore the pleading, the curses hurled at them.

Hard as he tried, though, he never forgot the look that had been in his father’s eyes at the end, as he stared at his youngest son, begging without words, not understanding how this had come to pass. It had been terrifying, but Jacob had been there, holding his hand as they watched together, whispering over, and over again, “it was the only way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

There had been arguments, and Will had sat quietly, watching everyone participate, unable to do much more than sit. His thoughts felt slippery and uncomfortable, the exhaustion having taken on a life of its own, personified by the unwanted presence of Abigail. He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples, but could still feel her hand on his shoulder, fingers tight and insistent.

“He’ll be there.” Will forced the words out, his tongue feeling thick, and unfamiliar in his own mouth. Around him, the room quieted. “He won’t be able to help himself.”

“Will, this is crazy, you should be in bed,” Alana insisted, and he had to choke back a giggle. Of course he should be in bed. He should be back in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, forced unconscious for the next week, but it wasn’t going to happen. He still appreciated the concern.

“It’s a long ride, I’ll sleep in the car.”

He did, falling asleep almost immediately. Jack had insisted upon driving, as well as leaving Alana behind. Beverly rode up front, while Will and Hannibal occupied the back seat. Seeing Hannibal’s long legs tucked up behind Jack’s seat was far more amusing than it had any right to be, and was the last thing Will remembered before finding himself back on the water with Samuel.

“Great,” he sighed, and contemplated overturning the boat. Maybe he could drown them both this time. At least Samuel was doing him the favor of sitting quietly, his head turned so as to watch the receding shoreline, fingers worrying at the edges of his sleeves, which Will could see were bloody, as they had been in the waking world.

“You act like I _want_ to be here,” Samuel eventually muttered, folding his arms across his chest.

“If I have the opportunity, I’m going to kill your brother.” This was said with the same level of conviction found in a throwaway remark about the weather. Even in his sleep, Will didn’t have the energy to care. He was just… done.

“Fine, great,” Samuel muttered. “You do remember that I’m you, right? Which, while we’re talking about it, you should probably be concerned by the person you picked to represent your subconscious.” Will remained silent, and after a few drawn out, uncomfortable moments, Samuel picked back up. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to cope?”

“I’m tired. I just want to sleep.”

“You _are_ asleep, Mr. Graham,” Samuel reminded him. He was different than the first time they’d been together in the boat, sounded beaten down, fragile. Will opened his eyes and frowned, disliking this twitchy, despondent version of his subconscious.

“I’ll cope somehow. Hannibal will help.”

Samuel hid his face in his hands, and the little noise of dismay he issued made Will’s skin crawl. He shivered, pulled his jacket around him, wished it was a sunny day, like the last time. After a moment or two, Samuel raised his head, looking as tired as Will felt, which made sense at least. “Dr. Lecter is going to help you cope with the reality of what he is?” Will blinked at him stupidly; he’d thought they were discussing Abigail’s death. “You know how bad it is. Right? You have to, because I know.”

Will sat up in the boat, feeling sick to his stomach as snippets of images and sensations flooded him, a violation. “Stop it!” He had grabbed Samuel without even realizing it, had both hands around his neck, and was squeezing. Will let go, surprised, the boat rocking violently as Samuel fell back onto his seat.

“That isn’t going to work much longer,” he whispered, eyeing Will with pity. “You’re not even trying to pretend with him, anymore, and it’s… You’ve given him _hope_. Are you… how much can you _forgive_? Just be realistic, for five fucking minutes. If Jack ever found out you were harboring The...”

“Jack’s the reason Abigail is dead,” Will shouted, cutting Samuel off before he could finish. He was bordering on hyperventilating at this point, wild with anger, fear, and pain. “He doesn’t get Hannibal, too.”

Samuel sat staring at him, shaking, and Will had a moment of surreal insight; he was _frightening himself_ , had been since killing Hobbs. Since meeting Hannibal, really. The anger slid away, leaving him laughing, knowing he sounded hysterical, manic. The worst part was, he didn’t even have the encephalitis to fall back on as an excuse, any longer. “Maybe I’ll just lose my mind for a little while.”

Across from him, Samuel seemed to give up entirely, sliding as far down in the boat as he could, hiding his face, and Will was reminded of himself as a child, when there had been too much stimuli to process. “Maybe you already have,” Will thought he heard Samuel say, but maybe it was just the wind.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Will waited before opening his eyes, letting the sounds and sensations ground him as he slowly woke from his nap. They were still in the car, but had slowed. Jack was having a quiet, serious conversation with someone over the phone. He could feel Hannibal watching him, which is what ultimately prompted him to open his eyes.

“Are we there, yet?” Beverly laughed despite herself, while Jack gave him a dirty look in the rearview mirror. Hannibal simply continued staring at him, and it took a moment for Will to realize he’d taken hold of Hannibal’s hand. He wasn’t sure if he had done it while asleep, or just as he awoke, but their fingers were intertwined, and it seemed awfully unprofessional, and highly inappropriate considering their destination, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

Jack cut the engine as he ended the call. “We’ve got eyes on the barn, and a visual confirmation of Jacob Anderson. They’ve established a perimeter, but are hanging back for now.”

“That’s good, right?” Beverly asked, because Jack’s tone did not make it sound good.

“He’s not alone.”

Will squeezed his eyes shut, finally letting go of Hannibal’s hand as his stomach seemed to drop down into his shoes. “How old is the child?”

“Oh, God, he has a kid in there with him?” Beverly asked.

“We’re not sure, best guess is around nine years old.”

“Samuel’s successor,” Hannibal suggested. “Is he from the community, or an outsider?”

“They’ve only caught glimpses of him, so we don’t know.”

Will shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. The foray into sleep had been good, but had not been nearly enough. His body still felt like he’d been hit with a truck, and his thoughts had a strange slowness to them, like molasses in January. When he spoke again, the ghost of his Louisiana accent resurfaced, as it often did in times of severe stress, or overwhelming exhaustion. “He’ll have wanted one of theirs. Someone as much like Samuel as possible.”

Will stared out the car window, wondering if there were any good fishing spots nearby, while also half listening to Jack’s communications with the team up ahead. He was starting to agree with Alana, wondering what the hell he was even doing there. They didn’t need him, at this point, they needed a sniper and a clear shot. It wasn’t until Beverly reacted with a small noise of surprise and dismay that Will even realized he’d said the last part out loud, and currently had all eyes on him. “If he knows he’s surrounded, he’s going to kill the kid before turning the gun on himself.”

Jack seemed to wait for Hannibal to contradict Will’s proclamation, but as the silence stretched on, he returned his attention to the radio. “If you have a shot, take it.”

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jacob loved the barn.

His father had beaten him into new and interesting shapes, not understanding at the time the gift he was giving Jacob, giving both of them, really. He’d waited, suffered, protected Samuel as best he could, so that when the moment came, he would be ready for his rebirth. There had been no hesitation, just instinct working its magic as he yanked at the ladder, sending his father spiraling down to his ultimate demise. That he had landed where he did was pure luck, and Jacob took it as further proof that the Gods his family and community were always talking about simply did not exist.

He had entered the barn a boy, and left a man, filled with renewed purpose, and a profound sense of joy. It had taken time to win Samuel over, but not much. No one suspected them of any wrongdoing, which helped, and life had immediately changed for the better.

Their mother had been crushed right along with their father, not physically, but emotionally, psychologically. Without their father’s iron hand to guide them, she seemed lost. Everyone tried to help, but they’d always been the odd ones out in the community, and his mother was uncomfortable changing that simply because father was dead. Jacob knew, for example, that he and Samuel were the only children beaten so severely, and he doubted any of his peers had late night visits from their father, certainly not the sort he had received, anyway. No, their neighbors and so called friends had no reason to think his father’s death was anything but an accident, which was all the better.

His mother, though. Jacob sighed, stretched out his legs, smiled at his new friend. “Persuasion is an art, Samuel,” he said, tousling the boy’s hair, which was far lighter than Samuel’s, but could be easily dyed to match. His eyes were the same color, as was the air of trustworthiness about him, and that was the important part. He was clever, as evidenced by not attempting to correct Jacob for calling him by the wrong name this time, having learnt his lesson after the first time.

“Yes, sir,” the boy said solemnly, and Jacob could almost ignore the fear he heard there.

“I’ll teach you, like I taught him,” he added, nodding to himself.

Their mother had been his first true collaboration with Samuel. Worrying away at her shattered psyche hadn’t posed much of a challenge, but there was a big difference between giving someone a nervous breakdown, and talking a religious widow into committing suicide when she still had two children to care for. It had taken years, but was worth the effort, and was excellent practice for the future.

It had been such an important, wonderful time in their lives, and none of it would have been possible without his transformation in the barn. They’d returned every year to celebrate, to remember how far they’d come—up until they’d finally tipped their mother over the edge, of course. Once she was dead, Jacob had packed up their things and left with Samuel, headed to the city, where adventure awaited.

Returning to the barn had felt right, up until the landscape changed to countryside, and the smells changed to match, and he looked to his right, expecting his brother, and instead found… nothing. That was when the full weight of his decision had slammed home in Jacob’s heart, forcing him to pull over on the side of the road. He hadn’t expected it—he was used to expecting most everything—and Samuel’s absence was like looking down to find his legs has been blown off by a landmine.

The panic that set in, the sheer sense of _loss_ , was crippling. Samuel was his _everything_. Jacob almost turned the car around, his mind spinning through options, trying to find the solution to what he had done. Samuel would eventually forgive him for the death of the girl, that wasn’t the issue, but by now the authorities would be looking for them. Jacob couldn’t even be sure that Samuel was still alive, which was excruciating. He’d expected Samuel to be arrested, had left a little trail to keep the police occupied while he beat a hasty retreat, but now he was faced with the understanding that he most likely would never see his brother again.

He’d howled, raged, gotten out of the car and thrown up in the field, everything too bright, too fucking unbearable… and that was when he had seen the boy.

“You’ll never be as good as him,” Jacob said, even as he wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. He smelled wrong, and Jacob squeezed his eyes shut, tried to force down the feelings threatening to boil over. “But I can love you. I can help you become the very best version of you. We’re going to do wonderful things together, Samuel.”

He would ignore the crying for now, it wasn’t really fair to be judgemental so soon. Samuel was a work of art, one of a kind, and had taken years of Jacob’s faithful attention to perfect. His father was the sort of man to beat a child simply for crying, and he was not his father, so he refrained from hurting the child, placed a comforting kiss on his forehead instead.

Jacob stood, paced a bit, looking around himself, wondering, hoping, aching. Just a little bit longer, he just needed a few more minutes, and then he could leave, once again transformed. He fumbled in his pockets, pulled out a photograph he had saved, and stared into the memory. It threatened to overwhelm him, but the longer he looked, the more calm he felt, until finally he folded it up, and slid it into his pocket. It was time.

“Okay, we can go now, Samuel,” he said, heart hammering wildly in his chest. He opened the back door of the car, then walked around to the front where the boy was seated, hands and feet bound with zip ties. Trust was earned, after all, and he couldn't exactly risk the boy running off on him.

He was careful when picking him up, tried to make sure he was as comfortable as possible on the floor of the backseat. “Behave, okay, I don’t want to have to put you in the trunk if I don’t have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jacob smiled, slammed the door shut, and took another moment to collect himself before walking to the doors of the barn. He thought he heard something, and turned in confusion to see some wood that had suddenly splintered nearby. Then there was nothing to think of at all, as a sniper’s bullet tore through the side of his head, cleanly exiting the other side while sending a spray of blood, bits of skull, and brain matter into the air, Jacob’s body spinning slightly from the impact before he hit the ground. If Jacob had been alive to witness it, he would have found his death to be beautiful.

~~~~~~~~~~~

No one was surprised when Will insisted on seeing the body. Jacob looked insignificant to Will, like some strange, discarded thing, and he was surprised by the wave of disappointment that collided with his relief. There wouldn’t have been any good answers to be had, really, he understood that, but still. It would have been nice to see him die. The closest he could get was to swing the pendulum in his mind, clear the people away as best he could, and watch the blood burst from Jacob’s head like pollen in the wind, over and over and over again, feeling it spray onto his face, shuddering with satisfaction.

Will crouched down in order to look into Jacob’s eyes, and smiled to himself, just the tiniest of smiles. Once he had his fill of having nothingness reflected back at him, he wandered around the barn, thinking it would be a kindness to the community if the FBI burned it to the ground once they’d processed the scene.

“Lucky break, him putting the kid in the car,” Beverly said, sidling up to him. “Bad enough to get kidnapped, but having to see someone executed in front of you? Talk about nightmare fuel.”

Will just blinked at her, overcome with the urge to help himself to the gun on her hip, empty the clip into Jacob’s face. He could feel his entire body tensing up with the effort to fight off the impulses coursing through him, his fists tight at his sides as he thought wildly of simply beating his pain, and frustration, and fear, and heartbreak, and longing out on Jacob’s corpse. He took two steps forward, only to feel Hannibal’s hand on his arm.

“Would you excuse us for a moment, Beverly?” Hannibal asked, and she nodded, heading over to Jack.

“Let go,” Will whispered, refusing to look at the doctor.

Hannibal stepped in closer, blocking his view of the body, and Will began to hyperventilate, but then two of Hannibal’s fingers were stroking the soft flesh on the inside of Will’s wrist, just rubbing small circles there. He raised his eyes a bit, focusing on Hannibal’s mouth, hating that Hannibal understood exactly what he was thinking, while simultaneously loving him ferociously for knowing, and stopping him.

“Nothing good would come of it,” Hannibal whispered softly, and Will licked his lips.

“It would feel good,” Will admitted, beginning to get his breathing under control. “I just… I have this overwhelming urge to destroy something.”

Fingers against skin, gentle, but intimate, and calming. Beautiful, impossible, dangerous Hannibal, wearing a suit still stained with Will’s own blood, and being so very much exactly what Will needed in that moment that it terrified him, because…

With a shaking hand, he tore off his glasses and, not caring what anyone thought, buried his face against the side of Hannibal’s neck, breathing him in, holding onto him like the man might disappear in a puff of smoke. The fingers that had been stroking the inside of his wrist were taken away, and then Hannibal was rubbing circles against the small of his back, with one hand curled around the base of Will’s neck.

The embrace was short lived, the weight and pressure of strangers around them leaving Will with crawling skin, and a sick knot in his stomach. “I want to go home,” he said, smiling at Hannibal even though no part of him felt like smiling.

“Soon enough,” Hannibal promised.

His eyes were filled with concern, and Will wondered if Hannibal was able to see into his thoughts, pick over the bones there and understand that what terrified Will most of all was that now there were no more excuses. They would wait out Jack, eventually make their way back to the house, and then…

“I love you,” Will said, fiercely determined sounding. “So fucking much.” And it was true, it was so true it was petrifying, and this was his last chance to say it before their entire world changed forever.

Hannibal tilted his head a bit, brow furrowing, but there was nothing but truth and want shining in his eyes. “And I you, Will. With all of my heart.”

Will nodded, shoved his glasses back in place and headed out of the barn, feeling transformed, as if something important had changed. A different person was leaving the barn than the one who had entered, even if it felt like they had been saying goodbye instead of I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there was an expectation of a big confrontation, but Will just didn't have it in him. Also, when I tried to make it happen, it felt like it was being done for the sake of being done. Hopefully this won't feel anticlimactic to you, but rather urm... honest? Some word like that.
> 
> Up next... The Conversation.


	29. They Have Made Me

“ _I cannot remember the books I've read any more than the meals I have eaten; even so, they have made me_.”―Ralph Waldo Emerson

  


Will jerked awake as the car stopped in the driveway, heart racing and his hand dropping to where his gun should have been, but was not. Jack had refused to return his weapon, which was probably a good thing, considering all that had happened. He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, rubbing them vigorously, wondering if there would ever come a time when he was no longer tired. His only consolation was that his last two naps—it was really more like blacking out than napping, if he was being honest—had been dreamless affairs, a simple absence of consciousness.

Hannibal had cut the engine, but neither of them seemed in a particular rush to head into the house. It would be dark, and empty, and wrong, but that was fine. That wrongness would be _right_ , actually. Hannibal had asked him hours ago if Will would like Alana to bring the dogs home, so they would be waiting for him when he arrived, but he had declined. It was silly, but he didn’t want them there for the discussion that needed to take place. Coming home to the dogs would be too tempting. Part of him was still committed to the idea of running away, continuing to hide, and their presence would make it easier to let himself bask in their affection, only to then embark upon a solid week of sleep, which would ultimately lead to falling back into a false routine of normalcy.

His arm felt like it was made of lead as he lifted it to open the car door. All of his limbs were heavy, actually, and the temptation to simply sink to the ground and never move again was fierce. He did not, though, instead he marched to the back door, only to realize he had no idea what had happened to his keys. Hannibal joined him a moment later, opened the door, and motioned for Will to enter first.

The kitchen was dark, empty, as it should be, the clock on the wall informing him it was 2:37 in the morning. Will had the strangest feeling that it wasn’t even their house he was standing in, that someone had destroyed the original and built a facsimile for some nefarious purpose or other, or perhaps simply to see if he would notice, see how he would react.

Will could feel Hannibal behind him, waiting, giving off waves of _presence_ that seemed to fill the room, make it more real in Will’s mind. He flicked a light on, just enough so they’d be able to see each other comfortably, if Will was inclined to turn around and look. He wasn’t, not yet.

“How long has it been?”

There was a pause, the sort of pause you can feel in the air, and then Hannibal said, “Far too long. And not long enough, I suspect.”

Will felt his heart jump into his throat, choking off the words forming there before changing course and dropping down through his stomach. He could just as easily have been talking about the time that had passed since they’d last been home together, but hadn’t, and apparently Hannibal wasn’t interested in pretending. He’d know the true purpose of the question, and had answered honestly.

“Cassie Boyle,” Will said, proud his voice did not tremble. He wasn’t ready to turn around yet, was still hoping, somewhere deep down, that he was wrong about all of this. Will knew he was right, though, because he could hear the clicking hooves of his old friend the stag entering the kitchen somewhere behind him, joining them, as was only right and proper.

“You required clarity.”

It wasn’t an excuse, and there was nothing apologetic or accusatory in Hannibal’s tone; it was just a simple statement of fact. Will recalled being stabbed, not the most recent stabbing, but the first time, when he had still been a police officer. He recognized that the strange coldness washing over him was shock, even though he had no reason to be shocked, none at all. Hannibal Lecter was the Copycat Killer, and Will had known for some time.

Realizing he’d been holding his breath, Will exhaled loudly, then inhaled rapidly, becoming lightheaded in the process. It was strange, but there was relief mixed in with all of the other feelings vying for his attention. When he turned, he found Hannibal was simply standing there, watching him while wearing an expression of curiosity, his suit jacket now hung over the back of a chair. Will stared at him, his skin crawling with gooseflesh, because he saw more, so much more, than his friend and lover standing there. He saw darkness swirling around Hannibal; it was as if the stag had entered him, and now there were antlers sprouting from Hannibal’s head, twisting outward, growing obscenely large until they filled the room, seeking Will, intent upon impaling him, and he gasped out, “you’re the Copycat Killer.”

Hannibal blinked once. “Yes.”

Will’s nostrils flared as he felt, actually felt, the antlers begin to push through his chest, slowly, painfully, and thought of Cassie, thought of Marissa, thought… “You didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to try your hand at murder.”

And the bastard’s eyes actually twinkled, that delighted little sparkle Will knew meant Hannibal was amused, because he saw the humor in something no one else did. There was the tiniest little twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and the sickness swelled within Will, black and noxious. Hannibal blinked slowly, lazily almost, did one of his reptilian head tilts, and that was all the answer Will needed. His body arched, rigid with pain as an idea took hold, an idea so awful, but so perfect that he knew it was true, even as every fiber of his being rebelled against the truth of it.

“Hannibal,” he breathed, reaching out to grab hold of the counter he was standing beside, needing something real to hold onto, because it couldn’t be, _it couldn’t_ , that would… “Hannibal!” and this time it was a plea, a cry for help, a demand to be told what he was thinking couldn’t possibly be the case, because if it was that meant…

Hannibal dipped his head slightly, the sly smile visible again for a moment before he looked Will in the eyes. He was scared of rejection, and he allowed Will to see it, but he was also absolutely unashamed; what Will saw in his eyes bordered on pride. Will could taste blood in his mouth, and for a crazy moment thought Hannibal had somehow actually managed to shapeshift, that it wasn’t just Will’s imagination that he was being gored with antlers, that it was real and now he was going to die in their kitchen, choking on his own blood.

“Shall I save you the pain of saying it?” Hannibal offered.

It wasn’t blood he was drowning in now, it was his own words, memories of his own words— _elegance, grace, brutality_ —as he described Hannibal over, and over, and over again. To Jack, to his team, to Hannibal, even, of all people, not ever understanding… Will squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as everything slotted into place; suddenly the Copycat killings made so much more sense. Fuck, _Hannibal_ made so much more sense. Still, he jerked in surprise when he heard himself say, “you’re the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Hannibal dipped his head slightly, his clever tongue darting out across his lower lip before disappearing once more. “I am.”

Will gasped, tightened his grip on the counter as the antlers pushed further into his body, filling him like wild, sharp, hungry things, wanting to touch every part of him. Will’s head tipped back, as in his mind the antlers began pushing their way back out again, like branches seeking sunlight, growing out through his eyes, out through his mouth, and nose, and every part of him until _nothing_ was left, until the shell of Will Graham gave way, obliterated.

In the moment he expected the greatest pain of understanding to manifest, something altogether different happened. Without him summoning it, the pendulum swung, clearing away everything, until he was Hannibal Lecter.

Will had actually lost track of the number of crimes he had projected himself into, of the minds he had slid into over the years, but could honestly say none of it had adequately prepared him for internally assuming the role of Hannibal Lecter. It was far less a reconstruction, and more a prolonged window into Hannibal’s perspective on the world, and Will would never be the same for experiencing it.

He was in the kitchen. Not their kitchen, _his_ kitchen, and he was working. Work wasn’t the word for it, though; it was creation, it was art, and was almost unbearably exquisite. All of the fear, the pain, everything that had been tangled up in Will’s chest was gone, forgotten, because he was Hannibal, and apparently Hannibal saw the beauty of the world in ways Will had never imagined possible.

There was music playing, he could hear it, but it was more than the notes of Mozart floating in the air around him, there was something else, an undercurrent, as if he was listening to the secret soundtrack of nature, some delightful, primal tune unheard by everyone else around him. He moved to it, and Will understood that this was where Hannibal’s grace stemmed from. This was something he carried with him, always, and it guided his movements in the world.

He watched as Hannibal’s—as _his_ —fingers performed, beginning the transformation of the organs on his cutting board into culinary works of art. Distantly, something that still went by the name Will Graham suddenly understood the true nature of The Ripper’s crimes, and seethed. But he wasn’t Will right now, he was Hannibal, and he had none of the feelings of Will Graham, he had only appreciation, amusement, revelry.

He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes as he brought a wine glass to his nose, breathing in the bouquet before taking a sip, allowing it to roll through his mouth, and there was so much there to taste with a palate such as his. Opening his eyes, the Hannibal that was Will surveyed his surroundings, and Will realized he had never really seen the room before, or any of the strange rooms in Hannibal’s house. Looking through different eyes, they were a feast for the senses, and it was tempting to lose himself in the contemplation of their varying characteristics, of the interconnectedness he now saw spread before him.

Perhaps another time. Licking his lips, he returned to his task, distantly marvelling over the level of care, of performance that went into every last aspect of the meal, every turn of his wrist, every minute adjustment to the meat sizzling in the pan. He could feel the intrinsic _rightness_ when the meal was finally arranged on the plate, a strange ritualistic endeavor unfolding before him that encompassed everything, right down to the angle used to bring the first forkful to his mouth.

And then, _oh_ , he was savouring, and Will had never tasted anything so heavenly in his life, which was insane, because he _had_ , Hannibal had cooked for him countless times—somewhere else inside he choked on this understanding—but he wasn’t tasting as Will, he was tasting as Hannibal, and that was an altogether different experience; it was as if he was eating life itself. He supposed he was, considering he confiscated life from the unworthy surrounding him, transforming them into something with amusing purpose. Will couldn’t help but think of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, who would have been disgusted by Hannibal’s actions; there was nothing even remotely close to ‘honoring every part’ to be found here.

The music swelled as the scene shifted, as horror after horror began to flash before his eyes, countless lives snuffed out, grisly tableus constructed, and Will marveled, not understanding how it was that the source of the tears welling in his eyes had nothing to do with disgust. It was joy, pure delight surging within, as his heart was flooded with the sensations of experiencing the world of death and dismemberment as Hannibal did. Bizarrely, unfathomably, everything was valued, everything was precious, sublime, and appreciated, but in a way that made almost _no sense whatsoever_ , paired as it was with callous disregard, cruelty, monstrousness.

Will thought of other killers, of other crimes, of how beneath the release and enjoyment often found in their actions there was a dark awfulness that followed. They lied to themselves, they lied to the world, their acts tied up in repression, tinged with filthy sexual urges, frequently requiring alcohol or drug abuse to complete, and almost always tangled up with self loathing. None of that existed within the heart and mind of Hannibal as he carved people into shapes of his own choosing, as he undid and rebuilt them. This was high art, theater, something that delighted the senses, something to be _appreciated_.

Everything that was Will steadfastly rejected accepting it until his hallucination, or whatever label applied to the experience, shifted once again, and he was Hannibal in the world, his mask of what passed for normalcy firmly in place. Walking through a crowd, seeing his patients, collecting oddities for his home, attending the opera, conversing with Alana, dancing with Abigail, and finally he began to see the great divide that existed between Hannibal and the world as people knew it.

This was the secret truth of Hannibal Lecter—he was not human. The parts of a person that made them human had been extracted somehow, leaving behind something else entirely. Will wished he could believe in gods, or demons, or even alien life, because then he would at least have a word for what Hannibal was. It was hard to think of his acts and not be horrified, to think _monster_ , but that was far too simplistic for what was at work. One could watch a lion devour a gazelle and feel disgust, but holding a lion accountable for operating within the laws of man was laughable. Hannibal wasn’t an animal, but the rest of humanity might as well have been livestock. He was so thoroughly _outside_ of them, above them, and Will wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, because guilt did not touch Hannibal, nor did regret, or fear as Will understood it, and that hardly seemed fair.

There had been loneliness, though. Of course there had been. He was a god walking amongst mortals—not the sort you found in churches any longer, but the likes of which were found within classical mythology, the meddling sort of god—and this meant he was by his very nature isolated. That being said, Will could sense that Hannibal had great affection for some of the people he encountered. Thinking of them as pets was misleading, because that was still too _intimate_. They were simply people he wouldn’t enjoy killing, if needs must, as he saw the potential within them and wished to have the opportunity to continue enjoying them as they were. To place them in situations, tease them with snippets of his truth, to wind them up and observe, to make sure they were not wasted. Perhaps he would have been satisfied to continue on this way forever, except...

Except that after years of solitude Hannibal had finally encountered a different type of person. Will wasn’t like him, not exactly, but he was special, different, was the embodiment of potentiality, of enticement. The loneliness had been dismissible before out of sheer practicality; if there is no one else in the world like you, the idea of trying to make a friend isn’t really worth considering, simple as that. But _Will_ , Will Graham with his pure empathy, his spectacular imagination, the simmering undercurrent of repressed darkness, Will was a siren calling out to him with the curious promise of potential friendship.

Will saw himself then through the eyes of Hannibal, and was awestruck. It was almost too much to process, the depth of obsessive love this man had for him; it was as if Hannibal had contracted a disease that was eating away at everything he had always understood to be true, and Will was both the cause and the cure, and…

Hannibal _loved_ him. Hannibal loved him in ways that seemed impossible, humbling and confusing, and unlike what Will thought love to be. It was cellular, dark and dirty, but also breathtakingly beautiful, and all consuming. When Will expressed his own feelings to the doctor, it hurt Hannibal, because so much of what Hannibal was had remained hidden from Will, and therefore his declarations were nothing but empty promises. They were just enough to allow room for hope, painful and poisonous, and Hannibal tried to let that be enough, tried to find a way to continue living without being completely destroyed by the cancerous obsession that was slowly eating him alive.

_The words do not adequately express what it is I feel for you, Will._

Will wanted to scream, because he had no other way to release the feelings clawing their way through his chest. Hannibal hadn’t been speaking poetically, or attempting to be romantic, he had been telling the truth, because there _were_ no words for this. It was like losing his mind, like having his entire genetic code rewritten in painful, confusing ways, like having all of his blood replaced with acid, like having someone step on his throat, pinning him to the ground, forcing their way into him until he was dust, and bones, and he could only watch as the beautiful world he lived in was destroyed.

Experiencing this love hurt Will. It hurt, more than seeing and feeling the delight Hannibal took in callously destroying lives, more than the knowledge that this man he trusted had been feeding him, feeding all of them, his victims to amuse himself. This love was like being plucked from Heaven and dropped into Hell, and Will couldn’t understand how anyone could ever think he, of all people, was worth this agony.

A god trades immortality for a normal life with a normal person, understanding that likely, their sacrifice would go unappreciated, unrecognized, and they would ultimately die of a broken heart. Certainly, the theatrical aspect of this appealed, but still, _still_! Why would anyone give up feeling like god? This wasn’t something he could turn off and on, Hannibal was the same not-person he had always been, but was now denying himself what every last molecule within his body screamed out for. Hannibal had stopped killing for him. He existed in a world of wanting, needing to perform, and create, and consume, but denying himself at every turn, all for a man who could only offer him some picayune approximation of love in return.

Will was humbled and terrified, and felt _foolish_ , burning with the sort of embarrassment that comes when you think back on things said with the conviction of youth, without having had the requisite age, perspective, or understanding of what it was you were proclaiming to be a universal truth. Because he clearly did not know what loving truly entailed; Will’s love had never been challenged. If given the choice, would he allow someone to blind him, deafen him, cut away his limbs and leave him a husk of a man if it meant a chance at being with Hannibal? That was the closest approximation he could think of to best represent what Hannibal had done for Will’s sake.

“Will?”

But, what of the boy he had seen in his dream, the brother of Mischa? That boy had been human, unspoilt. Something had made Hannibal, something to do with Mischa. And Mischa, their Mischa, thinking of her made his heart, both of their hearts, seize up. Will thought of what he had seen in Hannibal’s eyes as he held Abigail’s daughter, as if the universe had finally recognized his suffering, and found him worthy of reward.

The idea of Hannibal being rewarded for his actions make the bile rise within, the acid burning Will’s throat, stinging his sinuses, threatening to shatter whatever fugue state he was in the throes of. Hannibal had been killing for years, long before a subset of his crimes had been given some label, some designation of acts committed by ‘The Chesapeake Ripper.’ Will understood now that there had been no breaks between murders, only a change in performance style. Years, and years of lives stolen, snuffed out, and brutally at that. Yet, Hannibal had stopped, of his own choosing, and that shouldn’t have mattered, but it did, and Will _hated_ him for it, because…

“Will!”

Will’s body jerked as if an electric current had run through him, and the imaginary antlers were suddenly yanked free, leaving him empty and unsupported, and he was on his knees, on the ground, because his legs had given out, because everything made sense in ways he never wanted, and it was _awful_ and _beautiful_ and his heart was broken, smashed to pieces.

Hannibal had taken several steps towards him, perhaps intending to catch Will before he hit the ground, but had stopped, frozen in his tracks with one hand slightly extended. Will was Will again, and everything, _everything_ , hurt. He wanted to start screaming, wished he had his gun, because he wanted to punish Hannibal, as much as he wanted to turn the gun on himself, because none of this was fair, and he had no choice, and… just…

“How many?” he gasped, only to hear himself laughing a moment later. The look on Hannibal’s face had been perfect, and told Will precisely how accurate his imagination had been. There wasn’t an answer to Will’s question, of course there wasn’t, because none of them had been important enough to Hannibal for him to have ever considered keeping track.

“Nevermind. I might as well ask how many books you’ve read in your lifetime,” Will said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to push the memory of being Hannibal _away_ and _out_ , as he used the counter to pull himself back onto his feet.

“Will,” Hannibal said again, longingly. He forced himself to look at Hannibal then, and saw him, really saw him, understood what had been living behind the doctor’s eyes all those times he allowed his mask to slip, understood the sacrifices that had been made, the horrific acts that had been committed, and hated and loved and hurt with the truth of it all.

“Your design,” Will said, his voice choked with emotion, but strong with purpose, “for me, for us, what was it, originally?”

Hannibal worried at his lower lip a moment, as he slowly lowered his hand back to his side. “To help you, Will.”

“How?”

“I hoped to help you see a better, truer version of yourself,” Hannibal explained, and Will understood this translated to, _I wished to remake you in my image_.

Will’s mouth trembled, his entire body felt like it might shake apart, and he wasn’t sure how it was he could still string his thoughts together to form words. “Warning Hobbs, the rest of it… Curiosity?” Hannibal’s smile was beautiful, and terrible. “You _fed_ them to us, with a smile on your face.”

“You didn’t complain at the time.”

Will took two steps forward, fists clenched, wanting to strike out, before he simply covered his own face with his hands, tried to push everything away to some distant corner of his mind and heart, needing to focus. “Mischa?” he asked, and there was that look, that twisted, pained expression, and he revelled.

“What of her?”

Will had a flash in his mind of them as children, the love he had seen in Hannibal’s eyes, the pain in them now, the long years of killing, and the essence of the truth floated to the surface, escaping past his lips before he could actually process the reality of them. “She was _eaten_. Someone ate her, didn’t they?”

If he hadn’t just experienced a window into the world of Hannibal Lecter, seeing the reaction caused by his words would have left Will convinced the man was insane. Hannibal’s eyes were dark, beyond menacing, his lips pulled back like a wolf bearing his teeth. Will suspected Hannibal’s long list of victims had never seen this side of him, had only experienced the amused, detached, curious not-human toying with them. Calmly cutting away at them, ignoring their pleas, their screams, their begging... But Mischa’s killers had been altogether different. Will suspected this was the Hannibal they had encountered, and he wondered which was worse; seeing a savage animal, or clinical detachment in your final moments.

Hannibal contorted slightly as he regained control of himself, but his eyes remained wild. Will wanted to laugh, but didn’t trust himself to be able to stop if he started. There was too much to process, too much horror, and he had burned through so much of his emotional and psychological reserves dealing with Abigail’s murder, and the brothers Anderson that he felt like a dried out husk of a man. This was what going insane felt like. His mind trembled under the weight of the paradox, as the conflicting realities vied to occupy the same space, causing a great and terrible divide to tear him in half, eradicating whatever was left of his previous life.

Will’s head felt like it might actually explode, his temples throbbing, his jaw tight, and his thoughts like maggots eating into his brain. Because nothing about this was easy, and there was Mischa, their Mischa, to consider, but all he could think was that the best possible outcome would be if neither of them left the kitchen alive, and she grew up never knowing they’d existed. Love, and hatred, and anger, and longing, and resignation, and… Will wished he had tears left to shed, because the decision he had come to was like being carved open all over again, and he wasn’t sure he could live with what needed to be done.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hannibal watched the pain as it worked its way through Will, and longed to touch him, to consume him, to capture every last tick, every tremble. Will had never seemed more beautiful than in that moment, perhaps because Hannibal knew this would be the last time they were this close. He had attempted to imagine his way through this moment countless times, trying to convince himself he would be able to hurt Will in order to escape, had time and again needed to alter the plan upon further consideration of his feelings, but now…

Now, Hannibal was powerless, for the first time since he was a child, and the sensation was wonderful and terrifying. If Will asked it, Hannibal would happily kneel before him, bare his throat, and offer up no resistance. It wasn’t that he wished to die, it was simply he accepted and appreciated that Will, without ever trying, had conquered him completely.

There was Mischa to think of, though, and perhaps there was still a chance at a life with her. “If I asked it of you, would you allow Mischa and I a head start?” Hannibal asked, surprised by the pain he could hear in his own voice.

Will was shaking his head, eyes bright and glassy, his mouth pressed into an ugly line. Hannibal suspected that if Will had still been in possession of his firearm, it would currently be aimed at Hannibal’s head. “I can’t do that, Hannibal.”

“Ah,” was all he said, surprised by how much pain Will’s answer caused. “Then, perhaps…” he closed his eyes, allowed his own tears to fall; he would cry on Will’s behalf if his lover could not. Hannibal opened his eyes, met Will’s own, heart sinking further. “Would you visit, from time to time?”

Hannibal had his memories, had his own spectacular imagination, and felt he could survive the long years of incarceration ahead of him, even handle the fumbling of Frederick Chilton, if he had something to look forward to. He wouldn’t act up, wouldn’t attempt escape, would provide whatever details were asked of him if it meant he could still see Will and Mischa, from time to time.

He could see the heartbreak spreading across Will’s features, as he once again shook his head, and Hannibal reeled with disappointment, and despair as Will answered. “I can’t do that, either.”

And so there it was, his answer at last. His suffering, his sacrifices, his hopes; all for nought. The sedatives were in his jacket. Reaching them, administering them would be simple—Will was unarmed, and in no condition to defend himself. “I understand,” he said, and he did. He made no move whatsoever toward the sedatives, because he had been _ended_.

Will watched him, pain contorting his features until he was almost unrecognizable, and Hannibal wanted to suspend him in amber, to live in that moment forever. “You don’t… understand… anything,” Will spat, his entire body shaking as the words tore their way across his tongue, and over his lips. He whimpered, and Hannibal’s heart actually skipped a beat, lurching in sympathy. “Hannibal,” he cried, taking two steps forward, as if against his will, “I hate…” he choked back a sob, took another step, “I hate myself, because I can’t…”

Hannibal’s heart was racing, a rare occurrence for him, as Will staggered closer, wondering if he would need to defend himself. “I can’t forgive you, the horrible, disgusting things you’ve done,” he said, his voice firmer now as he came close enough to grab fistfuls of the front of Hannibal’s shirt. Will stared up into his eyes, looking mad, looking lost, and broken, and so very, very beautiful. “I love you,” he said, and Hannibal’s mouth fell open in surprise, even as Will said it again, almost screaming it into his face with anger, “I love you! And I _hate_ myself, because I don’t know how to live without you anymore, do you fucking understand? If I told Jack… He’d kill you, Hannibal, and the thought of you in the asylum,” he was babbling now, and Hannibal shook his head in confusion, because this wasn’t right, this didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

“What are you saying?” he asked, grabbing hold of Will, pulling him closer until their noses were almost touching.

Will shook against him, his eyes wide and wild. “I can’t let you go, I…” Hannibal brought their mouths together, and then Will’s hands were in his hair, holding them there as he kissed back, his mouth hot, and desperate and tasting of unshed tears, but a moment later Will was pulling away, his eyes pleading, bright with pain. “You can’t _ever_ … Never again.”

Hannibal had already resigned himself to this, and shook his head in agreement, numb with shock. There would be no more killing. “I won’t.”

Will pushed, struggling out of Hannibal’s grip, took two steps back and wiped at his mouth. “I…” he pressed a hand to his head. “I need time, though. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you, but right now I feel sick,” he said, voice trembling, sounding like he was on the verge of hysteria. “I don’t know how to live with this, Hannibal. I _hate_ you, I fucking hate you for making me love you so much.”

“I’ll help you.” Hannibal watched, awestruck and confused and curious, as Will began laughing, even as he sobbed, and was unable to comfort him, unable to properly thank him.

Will smiled at him, and it was breathtaking. “I feel like I’m dying,” he said, eyes shining with an approximation of madness. “Can you… I need it to stop for awhile. Just dreamless sleep, about a fucking year’s worth, Hannibal, I just _can’t_ …”

  
“Come,” he said, and Will fell into his arms, and Hannibal held him, and marvelled, smiling into Will’s curls. And when he administered the sedatives, it was for an entirely different purpose than originally intended. His heart sang as he breathed Will in, feeling as if the world as he had once known it had returned to him at long last, because somehow, _somehow he had won_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as conversations go, there actually wasn't a lot of talking. *cough* Hopefully it lived up to expectations, though. Oh, you two crazy kids.


	30. A Sense of Someplace To Go

“ _All my life needed was a sense of someplace to go. I don't believe that one should devote his life to morbid self-attention. I believe that someone should become a person like other people_.”—Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver

  
  


Will shivered, feeling exposed and raw, hating that the sun was out and the day was beautiful, because they were putting Abigail in the ground. He could see her watching him from across her open grave, and wished he could not. Will knew she wasn’t real, was just a projection of his imagination, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Knowing didn’t stop his skin from crawling.

Mischa mewled beside him, impossibly small and vibrant in Hannibal’s arms, and Will trembled at the sound. Everything was too bright, too loud, too fucking real. It was taking every last bit of his strength to keep from running for the car, wanting desperately to take cover and hide. This was the first he’d left the house, the first time he’d allowed other people to see him, be near him, since Jacob and the incident at the barn.

Hannibal placed a hand on his back, warm, and large, and the touch was intended to provide comfort, but Will didn’t feel comforted. He felt _disgusted_. With himself, with Hannibal, with the world, with the part of him that wanted to hide against Hannibal’s chest and be comforted, with the part of him that wanted to shoot Hannibal in the face. With all of it. He clenched his jaw, body rigid beneath Hannibal’s touch, and after a moment the physical contact was ended, and he could breathe again.

Words, and sounds, the cloying stink of flowers, and shovelfuls of dirt. Somewhere nearby, he was sure Freddie Lounds was snapping away with her camera, documenting the misery. Hannibal would read the article when it went up on _Tattle Crime_ , he was certain of it, perhaps Samuel would see it as well, and some nasty little part of Will wished one of the Anderson brothers had killed the reporter for helping the FBI. No such luck.

It was worse when the funereal ended, because that was when the true condolences would be shoved down his throat, and the idea of standing there, shaking hands and accepting platitudes made him want to vomit. At least he still looked like shit. He was thinner, pallid and obviously damaged. It was the only thing working to his advantage at the moment, a ready excuse for people to provide on his behalf as he blatantly ignored them. He wondered if anyone other than Hannibal could guess that Will started and ended each day staring at the slowly healing stomach wound, trying to work up the courage to tear himself back open, pull everything out, in order to just be done with it all.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jack said, Bella frail and rigid behind him. Will assumed they were each thinking of her own impending demise, and hated himself for being glad. These days, he just wanted everyone to suffer, to choke on misery. Jack let his extended hand drop, frowning slightly and moving to clap Will on the shoulder when he received no response. Will sidestepped, preventing the physical contact from happening as he smiled a vicious little smile, and stalked away, leaving Hannibal to deal with Jack, and the rest of the vultures. He heard Beverly and Alana calling after him, and picked up the pace, needing to stay ahead of them, feeling the panic beginning to rise to unmanageable levels.

It was better once he was in the car, the panic beginning to subside, his breathing slowing to something resembling normal, and he squeezed his eyes shut after making sure the doors were locked. Alana was the type to force her way in, and if she tried to make it all better he would have to start screaming in her face. The last thing he needed was her deciding to involve herself in the state of his mental health, or lack thereof.

“It’ll get better, you’ll see,” Abigail said, and Will jerked in surprise. She was the only one he had spoken to since admitting the truth about Hannibal, since their terrible conversation, and she was dead; he was talking to himself.

“I don’t know how to live like this,” Will whispered.

Abigail smiled. He’d always loved her smile. “It’ll get easier.”

“He’s a monster,” Will said, trembling. How pathetic. Even now he was hiding behind his glasses, afraid to look Abigail— _himself_ —in the eyes. “Why can’t I stop loving him?”

“You belong to each other now,” Abigail shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. Will jumped a moment later when the doors of the car unlocked, and Hannibal appeared, began the process of strapping Mischa into the car seat. “Alana and Beverly wished to return to the house with us,” Hannibal said, kindly keeping his eyes averted. “I suggested another day might be better.”

He left an opening for Will to contradict him, but nothing was forthcoming. Will simply worried at his bottom lip and looked away, the sight of Hannibal and the baby too painful to deal with. “Very well,” Hannibal said after a moment, closing the door before circling around to the driver’s seat. Will hunched down further in the back, tried to make himself small, and nonexistent.

Hannibal started the car, and that was better, that was good, because that meant they were going home. He didn’t know what the word was even supposed to mean anymore. Home had been reduced to the place where he could find a dark and quiet corner, and attempt to shut out reality. Home was where he could curl up in Abigail’s bed with one of Hannibal’s shirts and try not to think, or feel, or exist. Sometimes it worked, but mostly it did not.

He could feel the weight of Hannibal’s eyes, watching him, watching Mischa through the rearview mirror, and shuddered, even as the echo of Abigail placed a hand over his, and one over the crown of Mischa’s head. “No lines, remember?”

“Don’t quote that asshole to me,” Will whispered, covering his mouth with his hands so Hannibal couldn’t see his lips moving.

“Will, _you_ said that, not Samuel. Remember?” Abigail sounded as if she had lost patience with him. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. There’s nothing easy about love. I’m just saying that if you hang in there, it will get better. I promise.”

He closed his eyes again, let himself focus on the movement of the car, on the soft sounds of Mischa’s breathing, and tried desperately to slip away into his imagination, wishing more than anything that what Abigail said was true. It was so hard to believe.

Will wanted to, though. Believe. If he held his breath, and concentrated around, and through the pain, he could still see the future he’d dreamt of the first time he’d see Mischa; of him, and her, and Hannibal, and happiness. It felt impossible, but so did everything else in life. Will shifted in the back seat so he could watch her sleeping in the car seat, and carefully reached out a finger, gently stroking her tiny hand. His heart seized painfully as she wrapped her impossibly small fingers around him and held on. Unable to help himself, he glanced at the mirror, met Hannibal’s eyes, and felt his heart seize again.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. It was completely amoral, and likely he’d wind up in prison for accessory after the fact, as well as aiding and abetting charges, if he didn’t wind up in Chilton’s nuthouse for his PTSD first. But for the tiniest moment, Will blissfully felt the pressure ease in his heart. He thought of the word _family,_ and dared to hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~

**Epilogue**

Hannibal groaned, the sound starting low, but ending on a high, keening note, the sort of noise that made Will’s hair stand on end. He swallowed, tried to calm himself, to wait, but it was impossible; it was Hannibal’s fault, really, as he had been the instigator this time. He tightened his hold on Hannibal’s hair, tugged his head back further and bit into the exposed juncture of neck and shoulder. Hannibal trembled as Will licked the livid bite mark, nuzzling behind Hannibal’s ear for a moment.

“We’re home alone, remember?” He tugged on Hannibal’s earlobe with his teeth and let go, watching as Hannibal’s head lolled forward to hang loose between his shoulders, his hair sticking out everywhere. Will licked his lips and worked his fingers in deeper, running his free hand over the long line of Hannibal’s left flank, gathering up beads of sweat along the way. “You can be loud, if you want.”

Will smiled as Hannibal shuddered around his fingers, rolling his hips back without making a sound. “I’ll take that as a challenge.” Will pulled himself free in order to grab Hannibal’s asscheeks, spread them apart, then began slowly licking around, and around, nuzzling, but playing keep away with his tongue.

Still quiet. Will shrugged, gave Hannibal a rough shove so that his arms went out from under him, then held him in place as he began licking with broad strokes across Hannibal’s asshole, slowly increasing the pressure, waiting until he felt Hannibal begin trembling beneath his hands before his wriggled his tongue in deep, humming as he did so. Ah, there was a yelp of pleasure at least, but it was still far too quiet. He sucked, and licked, teased with his lips, gently taunted him with the soft growth of beard on his chin, and rolled his tongue, working his way in, out, taking his time and enjoying himself.

Will came up for air, caught sight of himself reflected in the standing mirror and had to smile, because he resembled one of the dogs, perked upright and curious. “There better be something on fire” he snapped, because he could hear his cell phone vibrating against the bedside table. He gave Hannibal’s bottom a playful little smack, and snapped his fingers. “Answer that.”

Hannibal managed to prop himself up on one elbow and grabbed the phone before it stopped ringing. “Put it on speaker,” Will whispered. He leaned over Hannibal’s naked body, squinting down at the display. “Hey, Alana, everything okay?”

“Hi Will, everything is fine,” Alana called in a singsong voice. Well, if that was the case…

“What’s up?” Will leaned over, and in the interest of not alarming Alana with the sounds of spitting, let himself simply drool onto Hannibal for a moment before working two spit soaked fingers back inside of his lover. Hannibal twisted around to glare over his shoulder, eyes wide with shock, which Will found to be adorable. He waggled his eyebrows and _curled_ his fingers, watched Hannibal throw his head back in pleasure, biting down on his lower lip in an attempt to remain silent.

“Beverly and Mischa just showed up, which reminded me we need to talk birthday party. Do you have a couple minutes?”

Hannibal shook his head, opened his mouth to answer, but Will beat him to it. “Sure! I love talking birthday parties.” He thrust his fingers deeper, scissoring them a bit as he rubbed himself against Hannibal’s thigh, loving the feeling of the warm, sweat soaked skin against his cock.

Beneath him, Hannibal quivered, shoving his face into the mattress and interlacing his hands behind his neck, as if that would help him keep quiet. Will shook his head, and pulled his fingers back out, grabbing Hannibal by the hips and flipping him over onto his back. He licked his lips as he watched Hannibal’s hardened cock bobbing in front of him, reaching down to stroke his lover a few times, while Hannibal stared up at him in disbelief. Will winked, made a little “shush” motion with a finger against his lips, then grabbed hold of the back of Hannibal’s thighs in order to shove his legs up in the air, burying his face between the man’s legs once more.

Alana prattled on, and Will allowed himself to feel a moment’s guilt on her behalf, even as he began lapping again, thrusting his tongue into Hannibal and sighing softly. “Will?” Oh, right, that was a question he’d just been asked.

“Sorry, uh, vanilla, I think.” He looked to Hannibal, who nodded his agreement. “Yup, definitely vanilla. Hannibal is going to make buttercream flowers for all of the cupcakes, because she’s obsessed with flowers thanks to that book Beverly gave her.”

“Great! Oh, that reminds me,” Alana said. Will grinned wolfishly at Hannibal, who was watching him with a look of abject horror on his face—and wasn’t his face flushed a lovely shade of pink?—presumably disapproving of Will’s intention to continue multitasking.

Will licked his lips, taking a moment to stroke himself as he stared at Hannibal, who let his head tip back, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see Will touching his own cock. That was a sign of impending victory, as far as Will was concerned, as Hannibal loved to watch Will do just about anything and everything. This was a guy with an entire sketchbook devoted just to drawings of Will cleaning and gutting fish.

Alana’s voice was relegated to background noise, as Will licked his way back into Hannibal for a moment or two before making a big show of retrieving the lube. Hannibal pleaded with his eyes, but Will just gave him an innocent little smile before working two slippery fingers inside. Hannibal’s breath caught, and he let the tiniest noise of pleasure escape, grabbing onto the back of his thighs to hold his legs up, making more room for Will.

“I think she’ll love that,” Will said absently. His eyes were fixated on Hannibal’s mouth, the way his lips were parted, and wet, trembling slightly. His eyes weren’t closed, exactly, but close to it, and he looked almost beautifully doped up.

Fingers weren’t enough to accomplish his task, obviously, so Will took hold of Hannibal’s cock, worked a bit of lube onto it, and began stroking, slow, and purposeful, teasing his thumb over the head, gathering the bit of precum that had appeared, rubbing it over his own lower lip, before sucking it clean. Hannibal shuddered around his fingers, pressed his lips into a thin line, his nostrils flaring, breathing louder now.

“...so I _had_ to promise her she could give Applesauce a bath, and it just made me laugh!”

Will smiled, stroking Hannibal’s cock a little quicker now, as he thrust his fingers inside of him, and it was going to be any minute now that he lost his battle against sound. “She definitely doesn’t get it from me. Hannibal created a dog grooming monster.”

Hannibal actually pouted over this comment, and Will had to bite back his laughter. He mouthed, “You’re doomed,” to Hannibal, whose eyes widened as Will leaned down to begin lapping at Hannibal’s balls while stroking and fingering him. The trembling increased significantly. Pretty much any second now… Will carefully sucked Hannibal’s balls into his mouth, curled his fingers in his ass, and worked the head of his cock at the same time and…

Oh, yes, that was the sound he’d been waiting for. A deep, throaty, needy moan tore its way through Hannibal, who tried to choke off the sound at the end, which only made it even dirtier, more desperate and _obvious_.

“What was that?” Alana demanded, her tone making it clear she knew _exactly_ what it was, but was trying to convince herself it couldn’t _possibly_ be what she thought it was, because Will was too considerate to have sex while on the phone.

Will couldn’t resist, worked a third finger inside of Hannibal’s ass, mouthed wetly at Hannibal balls once more, and this time when the doctor cried out in pleasure, the dogs heard him and began barking downstairs, wanting in on the noise.

“Will Graham, are you...” Alana sounded scandalized, and Will let go of Hannibal’s cock in order to grab the phone, almost feeling bad about the whole thing.

“Hey, I think Hannibal hurt himself, so I’m just going to…” Hannibal was glaring at him, trying to look angry, but mostly looking desperate.

“That didn’t sound like ‘hurt’, Will,” Alana was clearly trying not to laugh, so he figured he’d get an earful later on, but it would be fine.

“I’ll call you back,” Will promised, cutting her off before the conversation could go any further. “Have a fun sleepover, give Mischa hugs and kisses from us.” He distractedly ended the call before she could reply, thrusting his fingers deeper at the same time, and Hannibal groaned again, rolling his hips.

“That,” he gasped, eyeing Will like he was some strange new form of life, “was incredibly rude.”

Will just laughed, pulled his fingers free, much to Hannibal’s obvious dismay, and then stroked himself a few times, coating his cock with lube. “So eat me,” Will suggested innocently, unable to get the stupid grin off of his face. Hannibal was staring at him, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find words, scandalized that Will had actually just teased him about _that_ , even as his body trembled with laughter and desire. He’d apparently rendered Hannibal speechless, which was possibly a first.

A moment later, Will was the one gasping, suddenly finding himself shoved backwards across the bed, flat on his back while Hannibal straddled him, his hair hanging down messily. “Imp,” Hannibal declared, pinning Will to the bed with the weight of his body, reaching up to grab hold of his wrists. Then his mouth was on Will’s, his tongue pushing past Will’s lips. The kiss was rough, and sloppy, and Will worked his hips so he could rub his cock against Hannibal’s stomach, pushed against the hold the man had on his wrists, getting nowhere but more turned on.

Hannibal kept kissing him until they were each struggling to breathe, swallowing Will’s sighs, leaving his mouth red, his lips swollen when he pulled back. Will smiled up at him blissfully, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ of delightful anticipation as Hannibal let go of his wrists, and shifted, half kneeling over him as he grabbed the base of Will’s cock, positioning himself, and then, “ _Fuck_ ,” Will groaned, trying very hard not to buck his hips up, letting Hannibal slide onto his cock at his own, maddening pace.

Above him, Hannibal’s face was a thing of beauty, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, mouth open, and Will reached for him, running his hands up along his sides, over his chest, tugging at his nipples as Hannibal adjusted, lowered himself further, taking in Will’s hardness with little breathless noises of pleasure.

Will shuddered and shifted his hips, raising them just a bit, as Hannibal hooked his feet beneath Will’s thighs for anchorage, and then Hannibal undulated, like some large, exotic thing, and moaned loudly. He braced one hand against Will’s chest, the other against the bed, and rocked once more, taking Will in deeper, squeezing, and just, _oh_ … just like that. Just like that, Will lost his mind a little.

Hannibal shifted, leaning back a bit, bracing both hands against Will’s chest now as he licked his lips and slowly began to fuck himself on Will’s cock. God, but did he look beautiful doing it, too. Will threw his head back and made his own noises of pleasure, grabbing hold of Hannibal’s hips to guide his movements. He craned his head for an even better view, licking his lips hungrily as he watched Hannibal’s cock, thick and darkly flushed with blood, bobbing up and down in time with his movements as he picked up the pace.

“No phone calls to make?” Hannibal asked, the sarcasm somewhat failing, his accent thicker than normal, voice low, and lusty, and dirty. He leaned forward, curling a hand around the base of Will’s neck in order to support the weight of his head as he brought their mouths together for a kiss. He slowed the movement of his hips, and Will could feel Hannibal’s hardness sandwiched between their stomachs, leaving a damp little trail.

“What’s a phone?” Will managed to ask. He wrapped his arms around Hannibal, pulling their bodies as close together as possible, trying to fuck Hannibal’s mouth with his tongue, even as Hannibal worked himself on Will’s cock. One of them was making these amazing, vulnerable, almost panicked little noises—Will was pretty sure it was him—and then Hannibal disentangled himself, leaning back to hold onto Will’s calves and just, damn, _rode_ him.

“Just like that,” Will moaned, beginning to babble, unable to help himself, “I love seeing you fuck yourself on my cock.”

Will reached out and wrapped a fist around Hannibal’s hardness, smiling as Hannibal cried out in appreciation. Will stroked, not setting any sort of rhythm, just loving the feeling of Hannibal in his hand, the tightness of him around his cock, the weight of him, just _everything_. Hannibal worked them both into a frenzy, setting a frantic pace as he thrust back onto Will’s cock, only to surge forward again into Will’s hand, making soft, hungry noises.

Will wondered how much longer he would last. It’d been a long couple of days, and this was the first chance they’d had to fuck. There had been several aborted attempts: Hannibal had gotten as far as getting his mouth on Will the other morning; there had been groping and grinding in the shower; they’d tried to stay awake the night before, but damn if parenting wasn’t exhausting sometimes. They’d each agreed to wait, so Will hadn’t even jerked off, and his balls felt tight, that wonderful terrible ‘I’m going to cum my brains out’ feeling coiled low in his belly. Hannibal didn’t look to be in any better shape, his body all taut, glistening muscle, his cock throbbing in Will’s hand.

As if reading his mind, Hannibal pulled Will’s hand away. “You first,” Hannibal said, voice low, and dangerous. His eyes flashed as he watched Will’s face, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth, slamming himself onto Will’s cock with a determined glint in his eyes. “I want your mouth.”

Will growled at this, grabbed Hannibal’s hips and forced him off, then they were rolling, a tangle of struggling limbs before Will had Hannibal back on his knees, took hold of his hips once again, thinking, “there will be bruises there, later,” which made his heart race even more, as he fucked his way back inside of Hannibal. Deep, punishing thrusts, and each of them cried out in pleasure, Hannibal clenching down on Will, pushing himself back, wanton, now. Will picked up the pace, thrusting relentlessly, crying out, because he was close, so fucking close…

“Fuck, _Hannibal_!” He didn’t think it classified as a scream, but the dogs were barking again, so that probably meant it was. Will didn’t care, though, he just held on for dear life as his hips jerked spasmodically, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he came, and came, and _fucking came_ in Hannibal’s ass. He lurched forward, trying to collect himself, face pressed between Hannibal’s sweat soaked shoulder blades, kissing, and licking the skin there, breathing heavily, swallowing and gasping as he pulled out, and…

And then he was laughing softly, as Hannibal turned on him, taking advantage of his postcoital state of relaxation to reposition him against the pillows. Hannibal was kneeling over him with a hand wrapped around himself, staring down at Will hungrily, his eyes dark, and intense. He looked like some predatory animal as he reached down and rubbed his thumb over Will’s lower lip, pulling it away from his teeth, smiling as Will flicked his tongue out to brush against the pad. Hannibal groaned and pushed two fingers past Will’s lips, pushing down on his teeth to open his mouth. Will blinked up at him sleepily, adjusted the pillows beneath his head until he was a bit more comfortable, then reached out, wrapping his hands around the backs of Hannibal’s thighs, pulling him closer.

That was better, much better. Hot, insistent heat as Hannibal teased the head of his cock across Will’s lips, and Will couldn’t help himself, he leaned into it, sucking wetly, teasing with his tongue, and that was all it took really, before Hannibal just let go of whatever semblance of control he’d managed to hold onto and just fucked Will’s mouth, long, deep thrusts that had Will gagging in the best possible way. One of Hannibal’s hands was tangled in his hair, while the other held onto his jaw, preventing Will from doing much of anything aside from taking it, which he did, staring blissfully up at Hannibal, as he hummed around his cock. Will could feel Hannibal was close, slid his hand up, squeezing one of Hannibal’s ass cheeks as the other hand snaked between, and under, and he worked his fingers back into Hannibal’s ass without warning, and then…

Oh, perfect, yes, Hannibal, beautiful, fucked up Hannibal, who loved to watch, pulled himself from Will’s mouth at the last possible moment, grinding his ass down onto Will’s fingers as he came in large, shuddering bursts, crying out in pleasure, his eyes wide and greedy. Will watched Hannibal watching him, breathing heavily and tried to get as much in his mouth as possible, failing miserably as Hannibal came all over his face.

He didn’t have time for commentary, hardly had a chance to lick his own lips before Hannibal was on him, pressing him into the bed, tongue lapping at Will’s face, gathering up as much as possible before kissing him, mouth sticky and salty with semen, dirty and wonderful, and Will’s heart surged in his chest, and he tangled his fingers in Hannibal’s sweaty hair, holding him there, never wanting to stop.

Will wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, the intensity of the kiss slowly dying down, until their breathing was calmer, and he could remember things like his name, and how words worked again. Hannibal was beside him, one arm around Will’s waist, his head tucked against his shoulder, and Will ran his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, and grinned up at the ceiling.

“Can you believe she’s going to be six already?”

Hannibal made a speculative noise against Will’s throat, the vibration tickling. He licked along Will’s collarbone, making him squirm. “No.”

“She’s growing up so fast,” Will said, wistfully, and Hannibal squeezed him tighter, biting down lightly. Will shivered, the air feeling cool against his exposed skin now, contrasting pleasantly with the sticky heat from where Hannibal was wrapped around him.

Will stretched, and then something caught his eye. The screen had just flashed on his cell phone where it rested on the bedside table, and he snatched it up before it could go back to sleep. He felt himself begin to grow hot with embarrassment as realization slowly crept over him. Looking at the call time confirmed his suspicions.

Feeling the sudden tension in Will’s body, Hannibal propped himself up on an elbow and stared. Will smile wanly, could feel his eyebrows creeping up his forehead as he held the phone up so Hannibal could see the call time visible below Alana’s info. “Will,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“I thought I hung up!” He winced apologetically as the horror unfolded across Hannibal’s face. “I guess I just turned off speaker phone.”

Hannibal rolled onto his back and began shaking with quiet laughter, as Will stared down at the phone, his face hot, and red, muttering. “I bet you Beverly wouldn’t let Alana hang up.” He tossed the phone onto the far end of the bed, scowling. “The pervert!”

“I believe you were the one having a conversation with Alana while your fingers were inside me,” Hannibal pointed out. Will hit him with a pillow, then did it again for good measure.

“I’m never going to hear the end of this,” Will announced as he got out of the bed. “I can’t remember, did I say anything really embarrassing?”

As if hearing his question from miles away, Will’s phone vibrated with a received text message from Beverly Katz. _Hope you boys are having fun, see you tomorrow at noon!_ followed a moment later by, _Just like that… yeah… grunt grunt grunt… ride that cock…_

Will scrubbed his hands across his face and hung his head, mortified. “Great. You realize Mischa will be graduating from college, and Beverly will still be teasing me about this?”

Hannibal shrugged, winking as he brushed past Will to head for the shower, and Will could only laugh, and shake his head, his heart lurching painfully in his chest, because _this was his life_ , and that still made no sense to him at all, but he _loved_ it. He loved every last fucking minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I felt like we'd all had a nice angsty roller coaster ride going on, enough so that I wanted to flash into the future one more time in order to remember where they wind up. The next multi-chapter fic will basically deal with Will dealing. Before that, though, will be something a little naughtier posted.
> 
> Anyway, we got to the end! I hope it wasn't disappointing for anyone, it definitely isn't "over" so you're stuck with me.
> 
> A huge HUGE thank you to all of the wonderful people taking time each week to read, and leave a comment, and really this fic is for all of you. You're the best, and made this whole crazy thing 9,000 times more fun. Feel free to stalk me on tumblr! http://finely-honed.tumblr.com/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Not To Die of The Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343013) by [Eridanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eridanie/pseuds/Eridanie), [Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed)




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